Four Years Of Our Past
by The Consulting Storyteller
Summary: "I doubt that our mutual affection can be described by a term as generic as ' love'. We certainly have the symptoms, but we're both two prisoners of our contradictions. Both driven by our feelings and locked by our pride."
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:**

_Sherlock_ is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

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**Chapter 1**

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Sherlock Holmes hated New York.

For him, it was one of the most awful places in the world. Dirty, tawdry, insecure, a combination of all the human sins. So sparkly in appearance, but detestable once one bothered to look a little more carefully. Sherlock always compared the town to biting a nice fruit then discovering a rotten heart.

He had been in there once, for a case. Murder. He remembered the very proper widow, worthy and straight, her knees together in a hundreds dollars dress. The thousands dollars diamond at her left finger, often removed. The millions dollars life insurance. God, he had hated that case, full of arrogant lawyers, insipid vamps and inept investigators. He had taken deep aversion to the old Uncle Sam.

And today, he was back here, at the JFK International Airport, waiting for a cab with his cabin suitcase beside him. All around him, people went and came, families, couples, individuals, tourists, businessmen, strolling, rushing, suitcases covered with tags, just simple figures passing through his field of view, appearing quickly to disappear just as quickly, like the ghosts of a life that Sherlock didn't want to hear about. The people here seemed to him such a stupidity that forced him to silence his gift of observation not to have to endure more of their mediocrity. The air smelled of heat, fuel and cooking oil.

Finally, it was his turn in the queue and he promptly got into the cab, giving the address to the obese driver.

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As they left Belt Parkway and turned onto North Conduit Avenue, Sherlock spread his jacket and pulled the mobile phone from his inside pocket, opening the SMS that had catapulted him into this part of the world. Just a few lines. He was surprised by the identity of the sender, unexpected. Then he had opened the message, which contained an address, followed by a note. He then had packed his bags and had taken the first plane to New York, leaving behind him a very confused John, a furious Lestrade and a boring case about an apparent suicide. It hadn't been a suicide, he had left his deductions on his desk.

The taxi finally left North Conduit Boulevard to Atlantic Avenue, with its rows of low-rise buildings, restaurants and shops, the style so far from the traditional opulence that was the neighbourhoods of the centre. Sherlock frowned on the bench at the thought. Luxury didn't impress him anymore, he himself had grown away from poverty, but he couldn't bear the typical American indecency to display as much ease and power. Thank God, he avoided Manhattan.

After a while, the wide avenue narrowed, rolling between warmer and more human buildings. Few of them began to accuse a little more height. Finally, the GPS voice made tinny by years of use and dust asked to turn left and the car obeyed, advancing in a tree-lined street that smelled good residential area with beautiful houses with beautiful porches. The taxi rolled again a few minutes, then slowed and stopped.

"Here you are, sir," chewed the driver, letting see an old mint chewing gum and three caries.

Sherlock checked the address on the postcard, nodded and gave a banknote. There was confusion about the 10% tip, Sherlock had to remind the driver the regulations in kind he frequently accepted judging by the state of the passenger seat and silenced him by summarizing his heart murmur, his passion for panties and the fight he had been caught into approximately a week ago, surely a gambling debt if he could trust the horse racing newspaper forgotten under the driver's seat. And, without another word, leaving behind a silent and without tip driver, he exited the cab and got back his cabin suitcase in the car trunk.

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The house before him was very pretty, Italian brown stone. Three floors with two windows each. He climbed the porch steps in white stone and wrought iron railing, and then rang the doorbell. He waited a few seconds and heard the lock click. The door opened, and a young redhead maid with a little white apron smiled sweetly.

"Yes, sir?" She asked. "Can I help you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied. "Your mistress is waiting for me"

He didn't know if it was customary to present a business card, but he had none. And it wasn't necessary. The domestic stepped away from the door and let him enter before inserting in a small room and to designate the sofa.

"Please wait here," she said. "I'll inform my mistress that you're here."

Sherlock put his suitcase on the marble floor as the maid receded in the house, and then removed his trench coat and his scarf. He sat down, looking around. The inside was like the owner. Old pink, soft white, a little touch of light brown. Elegant and comfortable. It reminded him of London. The hands of a clock on the mantelpiece trotted softly. Everything seemed so peaceful, it was relaxing. He began to feel the weight of his journey leave.

Sherlock didn't have to wait too long. One minute after, high heels clattered down the stairs and approached, a figure appeared in the doorway, and Sherlock could finally see the woman he thought he would never see again.

Irene Adler.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note:**

_Sherlock_ is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

.

.

**Chapter 2**

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**.**

The Woman was just as he remembered her. Small and thin, graceful and elegant. Well drawn cheeks and firm chin. She was wearing the same dress she used to wear in London, arched above the knee, with high heels.

The only thing that had changed about her was her hair. Always worn on top of the head, with the recognizable wave on the front, but once brown, it had now become blond. A soft and warm light blonde which showed off her bright red lips.

She looked at him with an indescribable look in her eyes. Hands pressed against each other, she smiled at him, and her smile was full of joy, sadness and gratitude.

"You came," she finally said.

"As soon as I got your message," he replied.

She slowly walked over and sat on the sofa in front of Sherlock.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I didn't know if you received it, I think I was about to go crazy."

Sherlock put his hand inside his pocket and pulled out the mobile phone. It was the one that he kept from the file after it has been closed. During this time, he had preserved the regular charging, in case the owner would manifest…

He turned and showed him the message. There was first an address:_ XXX, Henry Street - Brooklyn Heights - Brooklyn - New York - United States of America_. And then such a signature, one word. A single word.

_HELP_.

Sherlock didn't waste time socializing. Almost four years separated them from their last meeting, but the situation didn't give him that luxury. He looked Irene Adler in the eyes.

"What happened?"

She bit her lip.

"They found me again."

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"As far as I can remember," she explained, "it started several months ago. People stared at me in the street, I felt spied, followed. I thought I was paranoid and I didn't pay attention. But then I started being blackmailed. In my mailbox or my inbox. Death threats. I asked for help."

"From whom?"

She hesitated, pressing her lips.

"Well... When I arrived in New York, I had to make my living. I did it doing what I was doing in London."

She looked up at Sherlock, who listened without saying a word.

"It was difficult, I had to put my pride aside many times, but I got a very stable situation: chairmen, traders, political ... and senior officers."

"You asked a customer," Sherlock guessed.

She nodded.

"I had to make concessions, but as a military officer, he was able to help me and give me protection. Blackmail and threats ceased, so the protection. I was beginning to feel safe again, until recently. And my God, I was so scared that my first impulse has been sending a message on this phone. I had to go to an Internet cafe in Manhattan; I feared that my line might be monitored."

"You did well," Sherlock appreciated.

He crossed his legs and folded his fingers under his chin. Irene Adler knew this posture: he was thinking deeply.

"I thought of running away, of course," she explained, "but alone, I wouldn't have gone far. I need help; I can't do this by myself."

Sherlock looked at her without seeing her, lost in thought.

"What was the content of the messages?" He asked.

He suddenly felt a tension move into the room. Irene Adler didn't answer, and the atmosphere was strangely becoming very heavy. He raised his eyes on her to see her hands pressed against each other as if to make them merge. She had an unusual brightness in his eyes and suddenly seemed about to cry.

"Please…," she mouthed. "I…"

Sherlock was silent, attentive. Apparently, the content of those messages caused her to panic. Why? He peered her from head to feet, but he was unable to say if her fear came from the result of these threats or their content. Maybe both. But obviously, she was hiding something.

A sudden noise came from the door, followed by the voice of the maid.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't want to disturb you. But he refuses to wait."

Irene Adler had turned his head toward the sound, and Sherlock saw her face break. Intrigued, he turned his head too.

He looked, and he froze.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note:**

_Sherlock_ is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

.

.

**Chapter 3**

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**.**

The time seemed to be down. The second hand realized a complete revolution, and it seemed to last an hour. Space froze; the sound went out, producing a muffled noise.

He was looking, and he was frozen.

Sherlock was unable to move. He was unable to speak. He was unable to think. Sitting on the sofa, facing the door, he watched, motionless, as if struck by lightning.

Before him, alongside an embarrassed domestic, a little thing was moving. Knee-high to a grasshopper, wearing a small white shirt and little shorts black suit, small polish shoes. A little face pierced with blue eyes and topped with a cloud of dark curls. A small wooden train was lying on its side at the end of a string. Sherlock had fleetingly the feeling he was rushing to get it back on its wheels.

But he didn't move, he couldn't make the smallest movement.

Irene Adler rushed to the maid and Sherlock started to get out of the torpor in which he sank inexorably.

"I am sincerely sorry, ma'am," he heard the maid saying. "But he waved claiming you. I told him that you had a visitor, but he refused to listen."

"All is well, Kaitlin," Irene Adler assured, "this is nothing."

Then she crouched against the small appearance and took his hands.

"I'm with a visitor, my dear," she whispered to him, "you can't disturb me when I'm with a visitor. Kaitlin will take you into the living room on the first floor, I'll see you when I'm done."

She gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, and let the maid take him.

The silence that followed was so tense that it threatened to break at any moment. Irene Adler stood where she was, almost unable to watch Sherlock in front, who hadn't moved from the sofa. Pale and speechless, he continued to look where was found to be small figure for several seconds before.

It was Irene Adler, who found the first force to break the silence.

"I'm sorry…," she apologized.

"Is it what…," Sherlock began with a toneless voice.

"What you think?"

He raised his eyes, eloquent. She lowered her own.

"Yes," she answered then.

Sherlock didn't answer, petrified. His face was turned again toward the door, still occupied by the remains of his memory. Irene Adler came to sit down on the sofa, with the guilt of one convict to death.

Finally, Sherlock seemed to notice his presence and turned his head toward her.

"How…?" He managed to articulate.

Irene Adler didn't raise the awkwardness of the question. She smiled at him carefully.

"Remember Karachi?"

And Sherlock was suddenly brought back four years earlier.

Of course, he remembered Karachi. He had learned through his own channels the news of the capture of Irene Adler by Pakistanis. He had almost missed the information. Inventing the excuse of a case in Europe, he rushed there. He had found the camp, neutralized the executioner and took his place. He had been brought before his convict veiled in black, who hadn't recognized him until they gave her the last favour for a last message. He knew it would be him she would try to contact. He had kept his phone, which had issued its characteristic bell as a signal.

Then he had neutralized the insurgents, but not without difficulties, and had torn Irene Adler scripts. He had stolen a vehicle and rushed to town, spreading the camp became motionless behind him. He had left the car in a street and finished the walk way to a luxury hotel frequented by many tourists. He chose this starting point, certain that nobody would think to look at a place of pleasure. He brought Irene Adler in his suite, had closed the door behind them, and the events had then lost control.

However, there had been nothing out of control in the way they were suddenly entwined. They had had a momentum, bewildered, but which seemed like a logical extension of what happened. It was everything they said, all they had done, everything they _were_. There had been no forgiveness; exchanged words were no longer needed. Forgetting the camp, the insurgents, Belgravia, Moriarty, the world, they celebrated a one they had thought lost forever.

During the three days that followed, they hadn't left the hotel. Then the fourth morning, a package was submitted to their attention at the reception. Inside, passport, visa, plane tickets and a bank account number. Irene Adler realized that their paths would separate there.

She remembered her departure from Jinnah International Airport, torn between the desire to stay with him and to preserve her life. But she had no choice. Sherlock nevertheless assured her that he would keep her phone, and she shouldn't hesitate a second if she had any problems. She was mounted into the plane, heartbroken, and assured her stopover in Doha. It was during this second flight that the first dizziness had appeared, accompanied by severe nausea. The hostesses had simply thought she was suffering from air sickness, but as a precaution had called for assistance. Picked up at her arrival at JFK and brought to a medical service airport, it was by the voice of a brave nurse that she learned she was pregnant.

The new brought tears in her eyes. Transported with emotion, she began to cry spontaneously, blessing this priceless gift. Because she realized that despite the distance, Sherlock would always be with her. And when, for the first time, she set foot on the New York floor, she knew she would come to get out, she was determined to do so. For their child.

Unfortunately, today it was this child who was threatened, pushing her to call a phone number she thought she had forgotten.

"I had no choice," she explained with a tremor in his voice. "I could still tolerate threats on my person, but when they started to threaten my son, I didn't hesitate for a second."

Sherlock heard her without really listening, the colours slowly returning to his cheeks. The shock began to wear off, but the vision of the little boy in front of the door continued to hover before his eyes like a bad fog. Adler Irene leaned forward anxiously.

"Mr Holmes?" She asked in a soft voice.

But she knew too well that nothing would be so simple. They didn't see each other for four years, and she made him come, to see him facing that news. She knew she would have told him, but she would have preferred to do it in time and with her own words. But the sudden appearance of the boy had taken this luxury.

She looked at Sherlock, who still seemed a prey to emotion. She hesitated, bit her lip, and then decided to give it all out:

"Maybe… would you want to see him?"

He looked at her. She thought for a second that he was angry and showed a surge of panic. But the situation required her to take things in hand.

"I understand the shock it can be, and I apologize sincerely. But perhaps it would be better for everyone, whether you are at least knowledge."

Sherlock decided nothing. He just got up, buttoning his jacket with an expressionless face. Irene Adler took his attitude as assent and stood up in turn.

"I'll take you there."

And she turned to leave the room. Sherlock followed in her footsteps, almost automatically.

They went upstairs, and Irene Adler led him up a double opening onto a large living room door.

"He's here," she shuddered.

She turned to him and looked at him straight in the eye.

"Know that nothing obliges you to see him if you don't want to."

But Sherlock wasn't listening. His eyes were focused on the area of the room before him.

He walked into the lounge. On the carpet, surrounded by a sofa and two chairs, the little boy was playing with his train, rolling it around him. He still had the curves of a child of his age, but his figure showed obvious signs of a future slimness. His eyes were blue, but lighter than his. In contrast, the mass of brown loops could only come from Sherlock. He also noticed the shape of the lips, modeled on his own, as well as the remarkably clear complexion of his skin.

He watched him play at a reasonable distance, motionless.

"What's his name?" He finally asked.

Irene Adler, lagged, couldn't conceal a smile.

"Sherlock," she answered, and he turned his head toward her. "Sherlock Hamish Adler."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Hamish?" He repeated.

"Yes," Irene Adler said approaching. "I chose to trust the Doctor Watson."

He couldn't stop the memories arise in his mind: "_John Hamish Watson. Just if you're looking for baby names._ "

"You have sense of humour," he admitted.

"Thank you, especially since it's the name that earned him his nickname."

Sherlock looked up at her with questioning eyes.

"One of his first nurses was dyslexic," she explained. "She pronounced "Hamish" upside down, calling him "Misha". We realized that this was the name he responded to, and it stayed."

Sherlock didn't react to the story. His eyes stayed focused on the boy on the carpet.

"How old is he, exactly?"

"He will be four years old on April 26. This is a lovely little boy; I try to educate him as best I can. He's a bit stubborn, and I think it runs in the family, but he's very clever."

Sherlock lowered his eyes again on the boy - _Misha_ - who played on the carpet, his mind unconsciously making the calculation. April 26. The conception therefore went back to a period between August and September. A cold fist repressed his stomach. Karachi…

Irene Adler watched the scene without trying to intervene. Then the little Misha seemed to notice their presence and looked up at them.

Sherlock plunged into this light blue look that was definitely his mother. The boy dropped his toy, stood up and faced him.

"Hello, sir," he chirped.

He had a small thin voice, but remarkably well placed for his age. Sherlock heard him, looked at him. In his head, chaotically hustled his knowledge of genetics, and various deductions passed before his eyes. Misha came to him, smiling innocently.

"My name is Sherlock, sir."

And he stood, face up, no doubt expecting a response from the unknown man in front of him.

Sherlock tensed, his lips slightly crisped. He couldn't remove his eyes of this little face that was frighteningly familiar.

"What's your name, sir? The boy insisted.

Sherlock held his breath. His shoulders were painfully stiff.

"Sherlock," so he mouthed.

Misha's face suddenly lit up. He lifted his finger in his direction.

"Sherlock?"

"Tut! Tut!" Irene Adler intervened. "Misha, you don't show people the finger."

But he wasn't listening. He looked at Sherlock with a kind of awe bordering on ecstasy. Sherlock knew the joy he must have felt to meet someone with the same name as him. If this little boy could only know…

In a move that he didn't identify as his, Sherlock mechanically stroked his hair, and then turned his head to Irene Adler. She had remained silent on the sidelines. He walked past her and left the room.

"Mr. Holmes!" She called.

He paused on the landing, she walked over to him and approached enough to be heard in a low voice.

"I'm sorry about all this. I wanted to tell you, but I didn't want you to learn it so quickly."

Sherlock looked at her. Not a muscle of his face flinched.

"I ask nothing," she whispered, "only your help."

He didn't answer. Irene Adler had to make a considerable effort to keep her mouth twisting as a result of despair.

"Regardless of my life, Mr. Holmes, I just want to save his."

She laid her hand on his arm in a gesture of pure supplication.

"Please. I know it's unusual for me to say this, but… please. Help me save him."

Sherlock stayed mute, trying to get the last fragments of a shattered composure. He tugged at the skirts of his jacket, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Historically, it has always relied on his cool to deal with complex situations. Many interpreted it as coldness or indifference, but he had made it his second skin. It helped him to analyze things, eliminating unnecessary emotions.

Only twice, the calm had been lacking: at the Dartmoor, where he faced fear and doubt, and Irene Adler, who had violently blown hot and cold on his feelings. Twice he felt ordinary, horribly _human_, and he had sworn it wouldn't have a third time. And now he was here, in New York, before The Woman he hadn't seen for four years, and this little boy… He looked at her; he looked at Misha who was looking at him. He thought back to Karachi, the four years that had passed since then. And despite all the phlegm in which he was capable, he had the vague impression of no longer controling anything at all.

He looked at her. Her light blue pupils were strongly planted in his. And, without knowing why, the words suddenly came out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"Do you have a passport?" He asked.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note:**

_Sherlock_ is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

.

.

**Chapter 4**

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**.**

**.**

He was finally unable to avoid Manhattan. Where they went was almost in the middle of the island.

Once his decision taken, Sherlock hadn't lost time. He had summoned Irene Adler to pack her things and to be ready in twenty minutes. Meanwhile, refusing to use her driver if she was actually watched, he took his own mobile phone and ordered a taxi. Irene Adler had returned with a small suitcase and Misha by her side, giving instructions to the maid. When the taxi arrived, they had immediately rushed in, with resemblances to a family about to miss their flight.

The vehicle had crossed Brooklyn Bridge and Chinatown, Little Italy and Bowery before entering the 3rd Avenue. And after a string of all identical and tasteless buildings, he stopped in front of a black glass building.

"You have arrived, ladies and gents," the driver announced.

Sherlock let Irene Adler deal with financial procedures, they quickly left the taxi, recuperated their meager belongings and hastened into the building. Intercom intervened and Sherlock pressed the button without waiting.

"Yes?" A female voice asked, distorted by the loudspeaker.

"Sherlock Holmes," he presented, "you should have received a call about me."

They had received the call. There was like a little snap and Sherlock opened the glass door that had been unlocked. They got into a lift that took them to a door, which opened quickly upon arrival. They entered a reception room, four chairs around a coffee table in front of a wall decorated with an American flag and a British flag, and a few words that Sherlock would never have thought to be so happy to see: CONSULATE GENERAL OF THE UNITED KINGDOM.

The door closed behind them, and a man appeared, his hand forward.

"James Lawford," he presented, "Consul of Great Britain."

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied shaking outstretched hand. "I guess it's with you that my brother has discussed over the phone."

"This was actually me who got the call. Your brother knows how to be terribly convincing when it comes to talk to world leaders. However, it was impossible to know the reason for your visit. Typically, we receive by appointment, but your brother made it clear to me that I had to make an exception for you."

"Our visit is nothing like a stupid loss of passport or visa, consul. These are death threats that lead us."

The consul handed these words. He looked around him, as to ensure the safety of the premises, and leaned forward slightly.

"Come into my office," he whispered.

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"Anyway," the consul affirmed leaning back in his chair, "consider yourself within these walls as in the UK. Any physical action against anyone here would be considered as a violation of border."

Sherlock didn't answer. Just as Irene Adler was silent, Misha sat on his lap, which was trying to catch the wooden name tag on the desk. The consul smiled indulgently and watched.

"Very well, Mr. Holmes," he began, "tell me how we can help you."

"We need to leave the country. The most unobtrusive and safest way possible. And don't tell me it's impossible. Miss Adler and her son lives have been threatened and I have a special interest to make sure they stay alive."

The Consul nodded knowingly. He has been warned by Mycroft Holmes about the… impatient tendencies of his visitor, so he wasn't surprised. But he wasn't stupid. He quickly noticed the profound similarity between the boy and the man with the so highly placed brother. However, out of politeness, he made no comment.

"The thing is possible," he estimated. "It must be possible to have a private flight with a good level of protection. However, it's impossible for me to promise you that you could leave on time."

Sherlock had to remember not to wince. He understood the obligations imposed by the procedures, but also thought it was a fabulous waste of time. Especially as he was facing another problem: Irene Adler had no British identity any more. She only had the U.S. passport which he had provided for her in Karachi, which was false. By that the consul is reluctant for this reason, there wasn't far away.

"Can I use your phone to call London?" He asked.

He had no choice. He asked Mycroft to spare him the formalities of making appointments, but he didn't mention the presence of Irene Adler. Now, if he really wanted to do things properly, to provide Irene Adler a British passport, he had to give up this information.

The consul gestured towards the handset, inviting the use of it as he wanted.

"I'm in the room next door if you need me," he said.

Sherlock replied with a nod. He dialed Mycroft.

The line rang twice, and his brother's precious tone was heard on the phone:

"Hello?"

"Mycroft, it's me again."

"My dear brother ... You can't definitely go by yourself without me."

Sherlock had to make a considerable effort to retain a sharp retort.

"Spare me your sarcasm," he hissed, "I have enough trouble."

"You've realized you have lost your passport?"

Sherlock sighed, imagining his brother gloat at the other end of the line. Sherlock Holmes asking for help, that was unusual and deserved to be savoured.

"My passport is with me, thank you. It's not me who need a passport. Mycroft, I'll be blunt, you're going to have to make someone back from the dead."

"Is that so? That is amazing. And who, without indiscretion?"

Sherlock had a microsecond hesitation.

"Irene Adler," he replied finally.

There was silence. Sherlock almost saw Mycroft sit down quickly.

"Irene Adler?" Mycroft repeated.

"In person, who has had never been beheaded in Karachi, as you thought."

"She's alive? How?"

"I was passing by."

Sherlock couldn't see it, but he guessed the amused smile of Irene Adler who witnessed the exchange.

"She needs a passport as quickly as possible."

"Do you realize what you're asking?" Mycroft protested whose voice had regained some volume. "You announce that Irene Adler is alive, which ultimately looks just like you, and ask me to intervene to save a woman who tried to blackmail our government?

"Mycroft, just do it."

"And why?"

Sherlock took a quick glance at Misha. The little boy looked at him silently. This was his last card…

"She has a child," he whispered.

Mycroft had a split second of silence before letting out an exclamation.

"Oh, congratulations for her," he hissed. "And why it is a reason for me to accept?"

Sherlock pursed his lips in annoyance. He had no choice any more.

"Mycroft, this child… He's mine."

When Sherlock had decided to assist, he only did it on condition of a compromise. He helped Irene Adler, and he didn't want to know if someone else took advantage of his help. Misha was Irene Adler's son, not his. The boy remained alien to him despite their obvious affiliation. However, the lack of convenience of his elder brother forced him to do otherwise, and to present him as his child was the best way to push Mycroft to act as quickly as possible.

Mycroft had suddenly become silent and Sherlock guessed him stunned by the news. Ignoring the surprised look of Irene Adler, he waited until his brother regained his senses before continuing to speak.

Despite all the self-control he could muster, Mycroft had received the news as an uppercut in the stomach. Groggy, he remained breathless in his chair, his mobile phone in hand, trying to realize what he had learned.

Irene Adler was alive. And she had a child. The child itself was nothing really surprising, but this child was his brother's. His sociopath detective-consultant brother had a child with The Woman. Who was alive.

"Mycroft?"

He heard Sherlock's voice on the phone, and he gave it to his ear.

"I'm here, Sherlock…"

He tried to regain his composure.

"I hope you realize the importance of your information," he approached cautiously.

Sherlock realized. But the situation didn't give him the luxury to handle it with kid gloves.

"This child," Mycroft continued, "are you certain that he's really yours?"

He had enough to deal with Irene Adler to know she wasn't stingy with manipulation. And that his brother wasn't stingy with credulity when it came from her. Not that he doubted the word of Sherlock, but with a character like The Woman, it was better to be cautious.

The response of his brother was brief and explicit:

"Do you want a photo or a paternity test?"

Mycroft Holmes chest deflated. If Sherlock showed himself so categorical, then there was no doubt.

"Should I inform mummy for this late Christmas gift?" He asked, trying to regain insurance.

"As long as we didn't leave the country until the problem is resolved, not a word to anyone," sliced Sherlock with obvious impatience. "Former enemies have tracked her, who I prefer to avoid if the information gets out, if it's not asking too much."

Mycroft kept a silence of circumstance. He was torn between his speed and his bewilderment.

"What do you need?" He finally chose to ask.

"Two passports. One for Irene Adler and one for the child. And a way to leave the country quietly."

"Transportation won't be a problem," Mycroft assured, "but passports will take time. You'll have to wait a few days before to get them."

Sherlock failed not to leap up from his chair.

"A few days? Are you serious? We don't afford to wait a few days!"

Irene Adler's hand immediately rested on his arm to calm him down while his brother listened to a calming silence.

"Wait a few days is better than no help at all," she whispered. "At least he's kind enough to do something for us."

"What I can offer you in the meantime, _little brother_," Mycroft continued in the handset, "this is a home protection. I can arrange to provide you people to watch over you. Given the knowledge of Miss Adler on some issues… I can justify this action by invoking the witness protection scheme."

Sherlock was starting to get impatient again, arguing that Mycroft didn't seem to understand the urgency of the situation, but Irene Adler hand landed again on his arm stopped him.

"I can't do better," Mycroft defended. "I could offer you a secure home, but I think this manoeuvring will only encourage your enemies and I know how the Americans are not stingy in ways to reach their target. Moving therefore would be pointless."

And before Sherlock could argue further, Irene Adler snatched the phone.

"Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock had a moment of hesitation, but renounced to react.

"Miss Adler, undoubtedly," Mycroft raised at the other end of the line.

"I wanted to thank you in person to have consented to help," she said.

Mycroft couldn't suppress a wry laugh.

"Miss Adler, no offense, but if my brother had not committed weighed in the balance, your fate would be the least of my worries."

"I appreciate your concern."

"Isn't it? Because he's my brother, I'll do everything in my power to help, but expect when we meet face-to-face you'll have to provide us many explanations."

"Well, I can start now, if you want."

And without further ado, she dropped the phone at Misha who was playing with the yarn.

"My dear?" She whispered. "Can you say '_hello sir'_ for me?"

"Hello, sir!" Misha chirped in the gate of the handset.

"Thank you, sweetie."

And she continued the communication.

"This is to make you understand, Mr. Holmes, I have other concerns that my little one," she stated coldly. "I appreciate your help, whether it's made light-hearted or not. However, if you really care about what I have to say, I will be delighted to meet you in circumstances that will please you."

And she gave back the phone to Sherlock, who took back the call.

"We have no time, Mycroft," he argued, "what can you do?"

"This woman has definitely turned your head," his brother sighed. "Maybe this is finally a blessing in disguise."

Sherlock heard him adjusting his seat.

"For passports," Mycroft pursued, "expect a few days. A week at most. I need passport photos and full names of the owners. While we're at it, do I have to pretend that she's your wife?"

"If the transport for London is safe, common names will suffice. I'll send you the necessary material by email. If you need to contact me, do it on my personal mobile phone or pass through the consulate, which transmit."

"All right. In that case, give me the home address so I can contact on the right people."

Sherlock gave him, and after the usual greetings, ended the conversation. He hung up.

"Failing to leave today, you'll have guests for a few days," he explained.

"Oh! Like what?"

"Black suit with a bulge under the left lapel."

Adler Irene made no comment. She certainly had reservations vis-à-vis Mycroft, but if it would allow her to put her son away, she was ready to make any concession.

"Very well," she complied. "In this case, what do we do?"

"First, we must provide Mycroft your names and ID photos for passports. We need to find a photo booth and a internet cafe."

"Then?"

"Then we return home, and we're not moving until we leave. I don't know, however, what will happen to your life here, you'll certainly have to make arrangements. I can easily imagine that as your enemies know that you are in New York, you can't go back."

Irene Adler shoulders fell back wearily. Then she would still have to leave everything behind her, like last time, and start all over again? She had worked so hard to get where she was in such a short time she had a heavy heart at the thought of having to give up everything again.

Would it be a quiet day?

The handset which picked itself pulled her from her thoughts, and she looked down at the desk. Misha had pulled the phone cord and chewed it awkwardly in his first teeth.

"Misha," she protested, "don't put it in your mouth, it's dirty!"

She took the phone cord over the teeth, put the handset up and stood, Misha in her arms.

"I think if we have to go around, it's best to do as it's day," she estimated.

Sherlock sided with his opinion and got to his feet. He opened the office door. The consul was in deep conversation with his secretary, and he looked up when he heard them out.

"Are you okay?" He inquired.

"Perfectly," assured Sherlock. "I've set everything up myself; you are released from your obligations. We'll however certainly lead to re-enter in contact for the supply of our passports, in which case you'll call my number."

He handed him a post he scribbled.

"Given that monitoring Miss Adler been, it's certainly the only channel that is not hacked. Keep it safe."

The consul took the post-it and stuck it in his pocket diary.

"I guess your brother will try to contact me again. I will keep you informed, you can count on me."

"Thank you, Mr Consul."

Sherlock greeted him with a nod, and Irene Adler shook his hand. As they walked towards the door, Misha greeted the consul.

"Goodbye, sir!"

They came down the lift and went out again on the sidewalk. It must be two o'clock in the afternoon. This was the time when people were leaving table digested by strolling around. Rush hour in the streets, the perfect time to act without anyone seeing anything.

He took the handle of his suitcase which seemed suddenly useless.

"Come on, we need to find a photographer."

.

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.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note:**

_Sherlock_ is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

.

.

**Chapter 5**

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When the taxi dropped them at Irene Adler home, a black car was already waiting patiently on the front porch, with two men who identified themselves as being responsible for "_protecting Miss Adler and people living under her roof_." Sherlock praised for once the diligence of his brother, even if he refused to do so aloud.

They finally found a photography shop on 40th Street, Misha's portrait had been difficult to get, his attention never focused on the goal. Then they managed to get their hands on an internet cafe on the 49th, where they had scanned and sent the photos to Mycroft with all the information he would need for the creation of passports. Sherlock was also curious about his reaction when he would see the pictures of the little boy.

Irene Adler opened her door, leaving the guards to enter and inspect the house in search of cameras or microphones. The maid rushed, recovering the bag of her mistress and informing the latest messages on her answering machine. One of them particularly attracted the attention of the guards: a series of clicking evoking the barrel of a gun. They seized the answering machine to trace the call, what Sherlock found stupid, their enemies shouldn't be stupid as to leave a trace of their messages. At best, they would date back to a telephone booth used by two hundred different people in the same day.

He regretted not having brought his laptop, and he immediately regretted having this idea. If telephone lines were monitored, the Internet would also be monitored. It could only rely on the good old methods of yesteryear: a brain, a paper and a pen. Fortunately, unlike some, he had all three.

.

The night fell quickly, maid called for dinner, but Sherlock didn't show up at the table and Irene Adler knew it would be useless to try to get him. Immersed in his thoughts, he would take hours to get out; she had already seen the phenomenon.

She had put Misha in bed when she finally decided to go see him. The maid had set his suitcase in a guest room, but the memory of Baker Street made it clear that he would make a minimal use of it. After knocking on his door and looking into the living room on the first floor, she finally found him in the lobby on the ground floor. Standing at the window, his hands in his pockets, he gazed absently the darkening street before him.

"Mr Holmes?" She called softly.

Taken from his thoughts, he turned his head toward her. Bare feet and wrapped in a long interior silk kimono, her hair loose in the back, she stood in the doorway, as not to disturb him.

He looked at her without saying a word. It was strange to see how much she had changed while remaining the same woman as before. It was the same head carriage, the same pride, the same strength, but oriented differently. It was soft, too, probably motherhood. She had the same attitude in the feline grace, but airier, lighter, like a ballerina. It was the same woman he had folded, the same woman he had embraced, the same woman he had… loved? And at the same time, it wasn't the same woman.

Sherlock knew by heart the body chemistry, but he had to admit his shortcomings when it came to deduct himself. He was still convinced of his intelligence and superiority, he always took pleasure to wrap in attitudes that made him inaccessible to ordinary people. It was so convenient. This prevented him from having to suffer the idiocy of his peers. Then John had arrived, had dealt a blow to his armour, with great blows of humanity, and Irene Adler only had to deliver the coup de grace. And he opened wide his breastplate, in which she was engulfed without hesitation.

Did she love him? As much as he could… love her? He remembered their last encounter, when he finally understood the password to her phone. He had violently typed the four letters, as so many stabs. And in his eyes, in his voice, his pitiful little heart broke into a thousand pieces. She had stopped his gesture, her eyes moist, pleading: '_Everything I said, it's not real. I was just playing the game.'_ Did she really mean it? '_I know. And this is just losing_,' he had replied coldly. He had defeated her by bravado, revenge, but she did worse. She had reached the one place where no one had ever had access.

"I know what you think," Irene Adler voice went suddenly.

Sherlock looked up at her again, pulled from his thoughts.

"Oh? And so what do I think about?" He wanted to know.

She crossed her arms over her chest.

"You thought about what I said, at your brother's home. '_Everything I said, it's not real. I was just playing the game_'. You wondered if I meant what I said."

He refrained from asking her how she had guessed. She had always been able to read him when that he had been unable. Irene Adler walked toward him.

"To be honest," she continued, "that's right. I honestly meant it."

Despite himself, Sherlock felt his heart clench.

"However," she smiled, "it's important to take into account the remarks which I alluded."

She stopped in front of him.

"Finally, Mr. Holmes, you are not so different from an ordinary man. Don't get me wrong, I don't say it as an insult. But I have seen in practice that when an ambiguous situation arises, when several interpretations are possible, people always have this strange reflex to opt for the worst. Yes, I meant what I said. But I wasn't referring to my heart as you had deducted out."

Sherlock remained silent, waiting for more. Irene Adler looked at him right in the eyes.

"I was thinking more along the way with which I was mocked about your feelings towards me. '_Oh, dear God. Look at the poor man. You don't actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes? The clever detective in the funny hat?_'"

Sherlock saw Irene Adler jaws contract.

"I hate myself, just knowing that I could say such a thing… and I succeed today remembering it word for word. Yes, Mr. Holmes, it wasn't real. I was just playing the game, Moriarty's game. That was the role he made me assume: to break your heart."

She lowered her eyes.

"This was absolutely not planned," she swore. "But when he has become aware of... my feelings..., he has forced me to use it against you. '_He's my kind of man_', it was a replica that I had to say at the right time to indulge you. Except that he forgot a parameter: you are Sherlock Holmes, the man who feels no love for anyone. And you have remembered it this time. When I saw the result of what I caused, I would have given anything to go back. When I said I was just playing the game, it was a desperate manoeuver to put things right. But you're gone, and I thought I had lost everything."

"Until Karachi," Sherlock said.

She nodded.

"I've never understood why you came back," she confessed. "After what I've done to you… Why?"

The issue remained unresolved. Sherlock merely turned his head toward the street, as if in search of inspiration, and then looked at her. He remembered Karachi with so pressing that it felt like it was yesterday. For three days, he hadn't been himself. Irene had pierced his defences one by one, and they had plunged without regret in a bath of emotions that they were unable to control. For three days, the world had not existed.

And now, four years and thousands miles later, here they were. She was there again before him, as if they had never left.

He didn't answer her question. But even he couldn't stop his actions, he reached out to her and took her wrist. Then he gently placed his fingers on her veins.

.

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.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note:**

_Sherlock_ is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

.

.

**Chapter 6**

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.

.

Irene Adler had a heavy heart when the door of her house in Brooklyn Heights closed behind her as she walked down the steps to get into the taxi. Sherlock was waiting next the car while the driver stored the luggage in the trunk. She opened the door and moved Misha on the seat, buckling his belt, and then sat down next to him. Sherlock sat on the passenger seat.

Irene Adler forced herself not to look back when the taxi drove off. She left behind her instructions, but she knew she would never come back here. To force herself to think about something else, she inventoried her purse for the tenth time, checking for her wallet, passport and her plane ticket.

Mycroft had diligently worked to get them. Five days later, the consulate advised to have them at their disposal. As for transportation, they couldn't get a private flight as expected. However, they each had a first class on a scheduled flight whose identities and liabilities of the entire staff and other passengers had been thoroughly checked.

Irene Adler had never left New York for four years. Too risky. She looked down at Misha, seated quietly, which would be his first flight. Beyond the urgency of the situation, she wanted to give the event the importance it had. Unaware of what was happening, he would certainly ask a mountain of questions, and she was determined to meet her child's spontaneity as naturally as possible.

Misha had already been in large spaces. Parks, kindergartens, shopping centres, Irene Adler had approached his education with the idea to open him to many things as possible. However, when they arrived in the large reception hall of the airport, everything just impressed him. He opened his eyes and a mouth which didn't fail to amuse her.

"Expect to see the planes, I'm sure it will be even better," Irene Adler promised him.

She slipped her arm on Sherlock's, with the role of family on vacation which they had decided to adopt.

The recording of their luggage was quick, and they hastened to terminal 7. They made checked their tickets and passports and passed through the security checkpoint – Misha showed the urge to follow the same tunnel as luggage – and entered the international zone, and then headed to the first class access where a lounge furnished with comfortable armchairs and sofas was waiting for them. Sherlock preferred to wait among neighbours headquarters than among strangers surfing between different shops.

When the boarding announcement sounded, Sherlock knew by heart the newspaper, but he still slipped it under his arm and they walked toward the door indicated. Misha stamped with impatience, unable to wait any longer to see the plane. And when he saw it through the glass while they waited their turn to get on the plane, his enthusiasm greatly amused the stewardesses who checked their tickets and led them to their seats. Misha was very happy to have his own, and he was installed with a colouring kit offered by the hostess.

The plane filled gently, it closed his access. The captain presented, invited passengers to buckle up, and then drove off. The unit flew, took off, and went away.

.

The plane landed at Heathrow airport after a six hour flight, around seven in the evening. They recuperated their luggage, passed through customs and, while holding a little sleepy Misha, they left the terminal.

To Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft was waiting for them. It was actually not that surprising that he had certainly waited the last five days with impatience at the idea to see what it was with his own eyes.

It was Irene Adler who saw him first. After months of watching people around her, she had developed the look. She saw him, stopped abruptly, drawing the attention of Sherlock who saw him in turn. He frowned in annoyance and walked over to his older brother.

"You couldn't stop yourself," he noticed.

Mycroft didn't appear to be dismantled before these little ceremonial greetings. Always armed with his umbrella and his sarcastic smile, he executed a small bow.

"Very happy to see you too, _little brother_," he whispered. "Was your flight well?"

"Wonderful. Anything else?"

Mycroft then turned his head to Irene Adler who held his gaze.

"And here is The Woman back," he summed up his smooth voice. "Finally, you make a remarkable tandem, two people back from the dead. You couldn't be more compatible."

"Thank you for this unexpected blessing, Mr Holmes," Irene Adler said.

Mycroft didn't answer; his eyes fell on Misha, half asleep on the luggage trolley.

"And the famous Sherlock Hamish Adler," he went on without paying attention to the irony. "Well, he actually really looks like you."

Sherlock had to remember not to look up at the sky. He was right: Mycroft had made the trip to satisfy his curiosity.

"Can we borrow your car or should we take a taxi?" He interrupted abruptly.

"The car is outside, waiting."

Mycroft hung his umbrella on his arm and led the way.

"I took the liberty of not informing your arrival to Doctor Watson," he announced while walking. "I felt it was a responsibility of you."

"Too kind of you."

"As you make your bed, so you must lie in it, _little brother_. He must still be at the clinic at the moment; he should come at ten o'clock. You'd better prepare your explanations. I wouldn't be surprised if he waives understand, major explanations are not your forte."

This thinly veiled allusion made Irene Adler draw near.

"What happened?"

"When my brother came back from the dead, it was necessary to warrant his absence. Unfortunately, his explanations were a disaster. My brother had the weakness to take his return – and the feeling that his family would have – for granted."

"He came back as if nothing had happened?"

"Almost, but the result was the same. Without the fabulous capabilities of denial of Doctor Watson, I doubt that Sherlock would still be there today."

"He punched me in the face. Twice," he intervened as to defend himself.

"And you deserved it," Mycroft stated.

They left the airport and reached the black limousine with tinted windows waiting unceremoniously outside the main entrance. Working for the government had benefits.

The vehicle drove off quickly and turned onto Tunnel Road.

"We spent the day combing Baker Street," Mycroft told them, "no security breach is to be deplored, if the weakness of the lock on the front door. I also emerged your file, Miss Adler, to look into your former enemies, but I guess they haven't given any indication likely to identify?"

"Absolutely nothing. However, I have compiled all that I could keep, letters, emails, answering messages. The file is in my suitcase."

"I can tell you that people are already at your home in New York to try to make the most of your computer. We apologize in advance if we discover… sensitive content."

"I have nothing to hide, Mr Holmes," Irene Adler stated proudly.

"I hope so."

He leaned back in the seat, considering the whole. Little Sherlock Hamish was in the middle, seated between his parents. _His parents_… He always had a hard time believing that this little boy could be the son of his brother. He knew he had felt some inclination for this woman, but he didn't knew that this inclination would have this result. _A son_. Sherlock. If he hadn't the evidence under the eyes, the idea would have made him laugh. He didn't intend to be cruel, he loved his brother and was ready to sacrifice everything for him, but Sherlock had become a character destined to end his life alone. The child, suddenly, was almost task in the portrait. Mycroft came to wonder about his brother feelings vis-à-vis this little boy. Sherlock was adamant about his fathership, but Mycroft knew his brother better than anyone. To present him so, he hadn't have had any other choice.

The journey to Baker Street was in relative silence, except London architecture that interested Misha a lot. He pointed occasionally a building with a small exclamation. The car went up Cromwell Road and crossed Belgravia. Irene Adler had a whiff of nostalgia recognizing his old neighbourhood. Then they went along Hyde Park, Oxford Street and turned on again in Orchard Street. The street became more familiar. Sherlock already distinguished the little red awning coffee under the flat.

"It seems to me that this brave Mrs. Hudson should be in it," informed Mycroft. "No movement was reported to me."

Sherlock wasn't too afraid of the reaction of Mrs. Hudson. She had met Irene Adler in the case of photographs, for the short time she had stayed at Baker Street. And meeting Misha would certainly delight her.

She came out of her kitchen hearing the front door open. Her apron smelled good apple pie.

"Oh, Sherlock, you're back!"

Irene Adler then entered, followed by Mycroft.

"How was your trip?" Mrs. Hudson inquired.

"Wonderful," Mycroft quipped. "He even thought to bring a souvenir."

Irene Adler didn't take up the sarcasm, and Sherlock simply ignored it. Mrs. Hudson then finally noticed the presence of Irene Adler.

"Oh, Sherlock," she reproached, "you could tell me that you had guests, I'm not even presentable."

"It's okay, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock reassured.

He went upstairs.

"However, we would appreciate a cup of tea," he said.

"Not your housekeeper."

And without further ado, she returned to her kitchen.

Sherlock was already back in the apartment and had put his suitcase against the wall. Irene Adler was sitting Misha on the sofa, and the boy was already beginning to fall asleep.

She looked at the room around her. Place hadn't changed much since the last time. The coffee table collapsed under the various papers, and the kitchen under chemistry instruments. She already guessed the body parts in the fridge.

As usual, Sherlock had turned on his laptop.

"You will stay here in the meantime," he explained. "You'll settle in my room, you'll be safer."

She nodded.

"And you? Where will you sleep then?" She asked.

He didn't reply as he opened his web page. Irene Adler then went to her luggage, opened it, and pulled out a large envelope and handed it to Mycroft.

"Here is what I was able to keep in recent weeks," she said. "I don't know if the data will be usable, but with the input of my computer, you should be able to get something."

Mycroft took the envelope without a word and inventoried the contents.

"I can't promise immediate results," he tempered, "but since my brother seems to carry your best interest at heart, we'll do what we can."

Steps hurried up the stairs and Mrs. Hudson reappeared. She had taken off her apron and was carrying a tray of drinks and biscuits.

"Knowing you, I'm sure that in any case, you would have had nothing to offer your guests," she announced.

Sherlock smiled at the diligence of his landlady. Always ready to say that she wasn't their housekeeper, but always ready to help them.

She put the tray on the kitchen table.

"Here. However, I haven't seen John shopping since you left, I don't know if you'll have enough for dinner for your guests. I'll watch."

And without waiting for approval, she opened the fridge and immediately made a face.

"Sherlock, how many times John said not to put your experiments here? Oh, my God, toes! Sherlock!"

Irene threw on him a fun look.

"You haven't changed your habits," she remarked.

"And why would I have changed them?"

Mrs. Hudson returned from the kitchen, shocked.

"Sherlock, your fridge! There's a child here!"

Irene Adler reassured her with a gesture.

"I doubt he's tall enough to open the fridge alone, don't you worry."

Mrs. Hudson seemed to calm, though still shocked by her findings. Then she came back in the kitchen.

"I brought a snack if you want; I doubt that we should rely on the boys to have refreshments worthy of the name. But I don't know what this little boy drinks. I have apple juice, I hope it'll please him."

She poured a glass of apple juice, and thoughtful as always, she had thought to take a straw. Her smile widened when he saw Misha drink his glass with relish.

"What's his name?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Misha," Irene Adler replied after a quick hesitant glance at Sherlock.

She didn't know if Mrs. Hudson had understood the identity of the boy, and she didn't want to rush events if it wasn't the case.

The evening fell. Mrs. Hudson had finally been shopping for dinner and shared her apple pie for dessert. Mycroft had taken leave to address the issue. Irene Adler had invested Sherlock's room and put Misha in bed, refusing him to sleep too late.

Sherlock sat in his chair, absently scratching the strings of his violin. Then the door opened, he heard Mrs. Hudson's voice, footsteps on the stairs, then John's voice:

"Sherlock? You're back?"

.

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	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note:**

_Sherlock_ is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

.

.

**Chapter 7**

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.

.

When John was entered in Baker Street, he had failed to come up against an excited Mrs. Hudson who was coming down the stairs.

"Oh, John! How was your day?"

"Uh… well."

He had looked at Mrs. Hudson with surprised eyes. She was radiating contentment and her smile was wider than usual.

"Am I in the middle of something?" He had asked.

Mrs. Hudson had pointed to the ceiling.

"Oh, Sherlock returned from New York, he's in the living room. There are guests. I don't tell you… But – hush! – don't make noise, someone is sleeping."

Perplexed by these obscure words, John had gone upstairs.

"Sherlock? You're back?"

He entered the room, found his friend in his chair with his violin in hand.

"Hi, John."

He took off his coat.

"How was New York?"

"Boring."

John had a smile to that answer and hung his coat on the hook next to the door. It was then that he noticed the woman's coat. He had a second stop, and then came back to Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson told me that we had guests."

"That's right."

"Who is she? A client?"

"One can say that," Sherlock mysteriously replied, looking toward the kitchen.

John followed his gaze and froze.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson."

Irene Adler was standing in the doorway. John looked at her, speechless.

"Irene Adler?"

"She needed my help," Sherlock explained. "The text from New York, it was her."

John remained silent, and then decided it would be smart to sit on the sofa.

"But you were dead," he said in a toneless voice.

"This is actually what everyone thought. But Mr. Holmes is a resourceful man."

John turned his head to spontaneously Sherlock. He began to understand…

"So, the case in Europe, it wasn't for real?"

When Mycroft had told him the new, the supposed death of The Woman was two months ago. He only could see that dark matter in Europe to coincide with this date. Especially since Sherlock had returned strangely silent, that John had found particularly unusual.

"You wasn't in Europe, right?"

The silence of his friend was eloquent enough. John let out a tired laugh.

"Typical of you," he smiled. "You will definitely never learn to talk to me."

He returned to Irene Adler.

"Anything else I should know? For that matter, you don't have one or two children in hiding, just to complete the picture?"

He was surprised to feel the atmosphere suddenly tense. A note on the violin snapped. Then he heard Mrs. Hudson up the stairs with new drinks, and he remembered: "_Don't make noise, someone is sleeping_."

He felt his face sag while Mrs. Hudson passed them while chatting.

"The poor little darling was dead tired," she explained. "We must say we don't take very long at this age. It's a pity you have not done earlier, John, you have met him, he's so cute! While the portrait of his father!"

John froze, looking at Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and Irene Adler in turn.

"John?"

He pointed a hesitating finger in their direction.

"No…"

He turned to Sherlock.

"You… and Irene Adler…"

"I leave you to your own deductions, John."

Irene Adler bit her lip. She was beginning to understand Mycroft warnings on Sherlock's inability to make prudent and thoughtful explanations. Seeing that John broke down more, she went and sat on the sofa next to him.

"What Mr. Holmes is clearly unable to explain correctly, is that I'm not dead in Karachi. Mr. Holmes was able to intervene at the last minute to save me. Everything has been done to you all believe in my death, but in reality, I was a refugee in New York. Unfortunately, my former enemies have finally found my record, the reason I'm back here."

"Okay."

He had at least understood half of the story.

"And… uh…"

Irene Adler glanced quickly toward Sherlock's room.

"He is currently asleep, I am therefore unable to present."

"He? It's a boy?"

"Yes. He's three years old. And to anticipate your next question… Yes, Mr. Holmes is the father."

John turned his head towards Sherlock who continued to calmly tease his violin, deep in thought, as if the conversation didn't concern him.

"But…," John hesitated. "How…?"

"Doctor Watson, don't make me teach you your job."

"Okay."

John returned to Irene Adler, pointing the finger at his friend.

"He knew?"

"In his defence, no."

"How did he react?"

"How would you have reacted?"

John leaned back against the sofa. He was tired. It had been a hard day's work. He returned with ideas of tea and a good night's sleep. Instead, he learned the survival of Irene Adler, saved by Sherlock from Pakistanis terrorists. That they had intimate relationships. And Irene Adler was taken to New York with a son who was three years old now. And all these people were gathered here today. A normal day at Baker Street.

John looked back at Sherlock, who continued calmly tease his violin, although a confused look crossed with uncertainty.

John understood the strange sensation that procured the new hidden son. But why his friend persisted it to be as inept when it came to signify events of such importance? On his return from the dead, John had to mobilize all his understanding and his dedication to digest the news. Because there was one area in which Sherlock was zero, it was the tact. He wanted to understand the chronic sociopathy of his friend, but he always had trouble with this also chronic mania he had to never handle it with kid gloves.

So The Woman was alive. And she was in Baker Street. With their son.

He stood up.

"I'm going to bed," he announced.

He walked up the stairs.

"Doctor Watson…"

"Good night."

And he disappeared upstairs. The door to his room was closed, and there was silence.

Irene Adler turned to Sherlock, who hadn't moved.

"I understand now the prudence of your brother, for your explanations. You haven't spared him."

"John is an adult of average intelligence. He just needs time."

"Yes, he reminds me of someone I know."

And she got to her feet, lips pursed.

"Good night, Mr. Holmes."

.

John got up the next day as he didn't even sleep. Fortunately, he didn't start work early. He pulled himself out of bed and dragged himself to the bathroom. A cold shower completed to wake him up.

Sherlock was absent. John figured he had already left for chasing villains. He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," a voice said behind him.

He turned. Irene Adler was sitting at the dining room table. On the chair to her side, exceeded a small mass of brown curls.

John paused for a time. The meeting of the night before came suddenly back to him in memory: Irene Adler, living in Baker Street with her son.

She was draped in Sherlock dressing gown, loose hair. She smiled softly at him.

The kettle rang, making him almost startled, and he poured his tea before approaching the coffee table. Irene Adler wiped a small mouth smeared with jam.

"Misha?" She asked softly. "Say hello to the gentleman."

A little head looked up at him.

"Hello, sir!"

John nearly dropped his mug of tea. Irene Adler had to hurry up to offer him her chair.

No doubt, this little boy had to be Sherlock's. It was the same hair, the same face, the same lips, the same skin complexion. Only the eyes were different, a blue less nuanced. John easily guessed that it must be the colour of his mother's eyes. He wasn't very tall, but showed signs of a future slimness. He wore a white shirt and black pants. To John, it was like coming face to face with a miniature replica of Sherlock.

He ate a piece of toast by putting jam on his fingers. Before him, on the table, was a glass of milk and an orange.

John looked at Irene Adler who had put two protective hands on his shoulders.

"So it's true?" He asked.

She nodded cautiously.

"Listen, Doctor Watson," she began, "I wanted to apologize for last night. Mr Holmes was not the most delicate and…"

"You can tell."

John swallowed nervously a sip of his tea.

"He lied to me. Once more. When will this prat finally decide to trust me?"

His voice rose, warmed, but aware of the presence of the boy, he didn't rise too high.

"That he never knew he was a father, I agree, but why didn't he tell me anything about you? He made me lie to him about your fate, knowing exactly what I was saying wasn't true. Can you believe this?"

Irene Adler agreed with him. But somehow, she understood the position of Sherlock.

"People who nearly killed me four years ago were terrorists," she defended. "They wanted to decapitate me. This is to tell you that they are not the kind of people to embarrass principles. If they knew you knew, they would have used any means to make you talk."

"And you think I don't know that? I've been in Afghanistan, so I know a little about the issue. I know I sound like an old guy; I look ridiculous with my jumpers, that the profession of doctor is not the most exciting. But I'm also a former soldier. I was on the battlefield, I held a gun, and I have repeatedly proven that I still knew how to use it. I can't count the amount of times I had to put my life aside for him, the amount of times I had to give up my life, just because he needed me. And this is how he thanks me."

A lump rose in his throat, growling. Yes, he was angry. Angry at being once again sidelined when he could be useful. Maybe he wouldn't have done or changed much, but sharing secrets, wasn't that what friends do, usually?

A ring at the doorbell interrupted his thoughts. Spontaneously, John and Irene Adler exchanged glances. Obviously, neither of them were expected to visit. It couldn't be Mrs. Hudson, they could hear her doing the dishes. And Mycroft would be announced.

John decided to take the lead.

"Stay here, I'll see."

He went downstairs to realize that Mrs. Hudson had anticipated. She closed the door, puzzled.

"Who was it?" John asked.

"No idea," Mrs. Hudson admitted, "there was nobody. Just that."

And she showed in her hand a large white envelope. Above, in printing characters, two initials: I.A.

John began to feel up on his back a little shiver of alarm. He took the envelope and opened it without thinking.

"John, seriously!" Mrs. Hudson protested. "Since when do you open other people's mail?"

"She and her son have been threatened, Mrs. Hudson, I think it gives me certain privileges."

"Threatened? Oh, my God, the poor boy!"

And she rushed upstairs.

John had finished opening the envelope. Inside, there was a picture. It represented Sherlock, Irene Adler and Misha, obviously in an airport, but he was unable to say which one.

Misha's face was marked with a cross in red felt.

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	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note:**

_Sherlock_ is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

.

.

**Chapter 8**

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John was unable to sleep.

He tossed and turned in bed, looking in vain for a non-existent sleep. His mind was so preoccupied that he couldn't rest.

For two days, the notion of rest was strange to him. He kept his eyes open, his mind mulling over the latest events without stopping.

Sherlock Irene Adler, Misha…

Misha…

John finally pulled the covers. He needed a drink, maybe even a sleeping pill. Leaving his bedroom, he went in the kitchen to prepare tea. By reflex, and he realized it in the way, he ensured to make the least possible noise so as not to wake Misha. Then, when he went into the kitchen, he turned out of habit his eyes to the living room and saw a figure in front of one of the windows.

Irene Adler was crouched in a corner, half hidden by the curtain and peered out carefully with anxiety. John immediately recognized this attitude. A sentry. He remembered the war, the hours, hiding in dark corners in fear of hostile action.

John watched her for a moment in silence, not knowing what to do. Then, abandoning his tea, he went to her, advancing slowly.

She was again wrapped in Sherlock dressing gown, loose hair in the back. The old wooden floor creaked under John's foot and she jerked her head towards him, holding an exclamation. The doctor couldn't help but notice how much she had changed in two days. He remembered The Woman, the proud and haughty dominatrix who had worked with Moriarty, turned Sherlock into ridicule and almost put the queen on her knees. But since they had received this picture, she looked like a small frightened animal.

"Still standing?" He asked.

John immediately found his question ridiculous. Sherlock had often criticized his truisms, and John, in spite of himself, wasn't far from blaming himself too. He moved closer and took a place next to her. Leaning on the window, he looked out, saw the quiet and motionless street.

"Something wrong?" He asked then.

Irene Adler looked at him with tired eyes, underlined with violent circles. Obviously, she had spent the last two nights without sleeping. With Sherlock taking a sweep of London looking for snitches and indices, John somewhat understood her alarm.

However, his doctor instinct awoke to the sight of her exhaustion, and without trying to convince or talk, he took Irene Adler by the shoulders and made her sit on the sofa. She didn't try to escape and fell on the sofa, the skirt of the dressing gown miserably falling over one of her shoulders. She gave up mechanically. Her gestures seemed unmanned. Her hand fell on her knee, there was a silence, then exhaustion, anxiety, melancholy, all struck her with full force, her nerves gave way suddenly and she burst into tears.

John didn't panic. He was a doctor. He recognized the consequences of high pressure. He found in the bric-a-brac which was the business of Sherlock a box of tissues and handed it to her before sitting on the coffee table.

Irene Adler didn't try to procrastinate. Forgetting her ancient nobility of Belgravia and Brooklyn Heights resident, she wiped her eyes and blew her congested nose. Then she stood still for a moment, the handkerchief in her hand, waiting for her sobs to subside. Finally, she opened her eyes and looked at John, still sitting in front of her.

"Please excuse me," she whispered.

"Apologize for what? It's normal to be afraid."

She let out a purely nervous laugh. Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn't seem to care.

"Thank you," she finally said, wiping the last tears on her cheeks.

"You're welcome. I was about to make me some tea, you want some?"

"It's very kind, thank you."

John got up and headed for the kitchen. He filled and set off the kettle, which began to boil as he went the tea box out the closet. Then he came back, his hands carrying two steaming mugs.

"If you worry about your home security, you don't have to about anything. Mycroft has put his own men in the apartment opposite."

Irene Adler leaned toward the window and looked at the adjacent building. She indeed noticed the sign housing available to rent disappeared. John put the mugs on the coffee table.

"Finally," he sighed as he sat on the sofa, "I'm not the only one not able to sleep."

Irene Adler understood and looked down at her tea.

"I understand that recent events have been a great shock to you," she admitted.

John raised his eyebrows.

"Well… A woman I thought she was dead reappears, with added bonus the child she had with my best friend. I thought I had seen all in terms of miraculous reappearance, but you set the bar remarkably high."

Irene Adler clenched her fingers around her mug.

"You're still angry," she guessed.

"Angry? No. At least not against you. Just amazed. Put yourself in my place. Sherlock leaves suddenly the country, and comes back without even warning with you in his luggage. I come from work without suspecting what awaits me to find him with you and a child. And not only he doesn't even bother to tell me, but he also leaves me stranded without explanation."

Then he paused. Indeed, he had distinguished some irritation in his voice. For two days he had hardly seen Sherlock, giving him just the opportunity to talk to him. And God knows he would have needed.

Beyond his embarrassment, Irene Adler let out a smile. She felt begin to understand the feelings of the doctor.

"More than my… return, it's the appearance of Misha which most amazed you, finally," she analyzed.

John nodded without a word. He could still accept the idea that Irene Adler was alive. And as inconceivable could it be, it was almost not surprised. It was so… _Sherlock_. But Misha… John couldn't banish from his mind the little boy with brown curls, blue eyes already so attentive at the world… The son of Sherlock. The son of the _freak_, the sociopath. The son of the man certainly the least made to be father. John realized then that he was jealous.

Unlike his famous roommate, he never planned to end his life alone. While he liked a lot in Baker Street, with Mrs. Hudson, cases, violin sonatas at three in the morning. He became used to the experiences, body parts in the fridge, the endless demonstrations on human stupidity, up to find some comfort in these inconveniences. But more than once, the idea came to him one day he would have to settle. Find a nice companion, start a family. He was a warm and friendly man; he aspired to a cosy family. But fate seemed to decide otherwise, nipping in the bud of yet promising relations, while the cold and calculating detective got everything he was looking for, without even trying, because a simple mishap.

"It's that how you'd describe it?" Irene Adler raised. "A _blip_?"

"Knowing Sherlock and his relationship with the… thing, how do you want me to call it?"

She put her half-empty mug on the coffee table, a little more nervous than she would have wanted.

"This is proof," she stated, "that you don't know him as you like to claim it. What happened was certainly totally unexpected, but do you really think that if the "thing" was hateful to him, or unnecessary, don't you think he would have shirk?"

John was silent. Irene Adler planted her eyes on his.

"When it happened, he was there as well as me. We were just the two of us. However, if it can relieve you, we completely ignored all of the consequences. We went at the Jinnah International Airport, and it was during the flight that first nauseas appeared. I learned I was pregnant when I arrived in New York."

"And Sherlock never knew?"

"Never before our reunion last week. We separated with the idea that, for my own safety, we wouldn't see each other again. He informed me that he would nevertheless keep my phone, and I could contact him through this channel in an emergency. More than once, the temptation to prevent him took me, but I didn't want to take the risk of them finding me. Misha is my life, it was out of the question that I shouldn't put him in danger. Unfortunately, I didn't need that."

John dropped his shoulders, a little guilty. He was jealous of his friend, but if he was a true friend, shouldn't he be happy for him? While a child befitted Sherlock's life as a straw hat befitted a cyclist, but this little boy was still his child, with all the joys and hopes he brought. John already imagined him grow up learning to manipulate the microscope and chemistry instruments. He readily admitted his new gaps in Sherlock relations with women, but he was certain that later, little Misha would have nothing to envy his father.

"Can I ask you a question?" He asked then.

"Please."

"Why did you choose this name? Misha. It is rather unusual."

He thought see a flash of fun through Irene Adler's eyes.

"He didn't tell you?" She smiled.

John shook his head. But obviously, it was anything to do with him.

"Misha is his nickname," she explained. "His real name is Sherlock. Sherlock Hamish Adler."

The doctor let out a small smile when he heard that Misha's name was actually Sherlock. But the smile had given way to amazement when he heard the name in full.

Sherlock Hamish Adler. Hamish.

Hamish.

Speechless, he looked at Irene Adler, who was watching him with humour.

"When Misha has been born, it was obvious to me that he would take his father's name. As a souvenir. Then I also remembered you, your joke about the baby's name, and I made the choice to listen to your advice."

Then she told him about the dyslexic nurse, who had turned the _Hamish_ in _Misha_.

"But why did you give him that name?" John asked, however. "Not that it displeases me, on the contrary, I am very flattered. But why me?"

Irene Adler looked gently. His fatigue seemed somewhat mitigated.

"Why?" She repeated. "Because you're a good man, Doctor Watson. You are brave and loyal, and that's what I wanted to pay tribute. I haven't been an exemplary in kindness toward you, yet your loyalty toward your friends is honourable. You remember the time when we met in this old factory after my first supposed death? You could get angry, go away, show yourself jealous, calling me names. Instead, you didn't hesitate for a second: "_Tell him you're alive_." Despite all that I represented, you didn't hesitate."

"Jealous? But it's not… Oh, whatever."

John gave out his famous vindication. He was beginning to get tired of always having to disabuse people. Over time, it wasn't an answer any more, it became a mantra, to the point of wondering if he should finally copy the hard stoicism of his friend.

He took his last sip of tea, ready to end the discussion.

"You know, Doctor Watson…," Irene Adler suddenly interrupted.

He stopped when he went to get up, and turned his head toward her.

"What?"

She had a split second of hesitation, and then gathered her hands on her knees.

"I have been subscribed to your blog," she told him. "To follow your adventures was a way for me to stay with him a little. I followed the case of the hound of Baskerville, your misadventures with Moriarty… And then one day, without warning signs, you posted the most frightful ad that I have ever read."

John was silent. He knew which publication she was talking about.

"I scoured the news sites looking for a denial. But each time, the news was confirmed ever. The next day, this Kitty Riley published her… horror. Oh, I would have ripped her eyes with my nails! I cried. I cried for weeks. If I forced myself to move, it was for Misha. He became everything I had. But the announcement of his father's death and your pain, Doctor Watson, was a stab in the heart. During the three years that followed, I never stopped thinking about you, your loneliness, your sincerity jeopardized because of this… pen pusher. Somehow, I felt bound to you. We were now alone in the world, alone with our faith and our memories."

Still silent, John hung on her words. He noticed that Irene Adler's eyes had slightly dimmed.

"I'll be honest with you," she continued. "At one point, I even considered contacting you. I thought that maybe, if his father… And you, it might be able to… help you, somehow."

At these words, the doctor looked at her, stunned. He opened and closed his mouth. For a second, and he didn't know why, he caught a glimpse of Irene Adler at Baker Street, wrapped in a sweater and wearing a plaid pyjama pants. He suppressed a chuckle.

"What? She worried. "The idea was so bad?"

"Oh no," he reassured, "quite the contrary. It would have been… nice. I would have appreciated the gesture."

"But…?"

"Nothing. I certainly would have had the same reaction that I currently have, but I think it would have been… well. Although I admit it difficult to imagine you living in a setting likes that."

"I certainly would accommodate," she smiled quietly, "but ultimately, you didn't need me. When I received this alert in my inbox indicating that you have published a new article on your blog, I confess myself wondered what happened. You had published nothing for three years, what then had pushed you back? This is how I read the news of his return, and believe it or not, but my reaction was much the same as yours."

"Really?"

"Yes. For a second, it's true, I demonstrated an extraordinary joy. Then I remembered those three years believing him disappeared with all the pain and loneliness that his death had caused. And I can tell you, Doctor Watson, if I were in your place, despite all the love I have for him, I would have done it exactly the same way."

John hesitated for a second.

"Do you love him?"

She looked at him and felt almost uncomfortable.

"Honestly, Doctor Watson, I doubt that… our mutual affection can be described by a term as generic as "love." We certainly have symptoms, it would be a lie to pretend otherwise, but we're both two prisoners of our contradictions. Both driven by our feelings and locked by our pride."

"But I don't understand. If I remember correctly, you said that you were…"

Irene Adler understood and couldn't suppress a rueful smile.

"Let's say that Mr. Holmes is the exception that proves the rule. I learned with him that feelings are not embarrassed of such barriers."

"And you would be willing to…? For him?"

She looked at her tea grew cold on the table.

"To be honest with you until the end, I'm ready to do something for him. During all that time I spent in New York, I learned to put my pride aside many times. I'm ready to start again. But you know, this is Sherlock Holmes. The man who would outlive God trying to have the last word."

They exchanged an amused look. John didn't know the reason, but he began to find Irene Adler friendly. She wasn't the cold and arrogant woman she had been before. Motherhood had softened her considerably. Today, she was a mother, with all that it entailed such as strengths and weaknesses.

Then she held out a finger at him.

"Did you love, Doctor Watson?"

She had a poor smile to any response.

"Yes," he sighed then. "To my great misfortune."

He pulled a small chain from his neck, which was suspended a ring, a thin gold ring with a small diamond.

Irene Adler immediately understood and retreated.

"Oh, my God… Doctor Watson, I'm sorry…"

He shook his head to make her understand that everything was fine.

"What happened?"

John drew up the small chain in his neck.

"A car accident, about a year after the wedding. It was a little time before Sherlock returned."

Irene didn't get up, but she didn't fail to note that this information had never appeared on his blog.

"We had met totally by chance, during an investigation. She was a client. We had met several times, and then lost to sight, and we ended up a few months after the suicide."

He ran his hand through his hair made unruly by hours of agitation on the pillow.

"We got married, but in retrospect, I don't know if it would have worked a long time. I was at rock bottom, my limp had returned. Once she made a mistake in my name and called me "_James_." I have long believed thereafter she had a lover."

He dropped his head on his knees.

"It was a lame story, I was rarely home. Finally, I believe that if I got married, it was to try to forget, but I couldn't."

He looked up at Irene.

"Then she died, I plunged deeper and Sherlock returned. He pointed me to the strength of the wrist."

Irene Adler looked carefully, rightly sitting on the sofa.

"Her name was Mary. Mary Morstan."

Then he paused. Irene Adler was silent a moment, then leaned forward, gently laying her hand on his.

"Doctor Watson… I'm really sorry…"

"Not as much as me."

She paused a second.

"Why?"

He looked at her gently.

"Because I lived knowing that I would never see her again. You lived knowing he was there, without being able to see him. I really think that between the two of us, it's you who are the most to be pitied."

They were silent, letting the silence settle.

John watched Irene Adler by stealth, looked at her tired face. He really meant what he had said. What could we feel knowing the loved one alive without the hope of seeing him again? He tried to imagine what would have been his future if she didn't need to call Sherlock for help. Misha would have certainly grown, would have become a young man. But without a father. If events had been different, would have he ever expressed the desire to find the missing part of his life? John couldn't suppress a smile at the though of his friend, twenty years later, opening his door to find on his front porch a young man who looked like him so much.

John put his hand on Irene Adler arm.

"I think you should go to bed," he advised her. "Mycroft's men are watching the house; you have absolutely nothing to fear."

She nodded thoughtfully. John stood up, making her stand up with him.

"Rather stay with your son, he needs you."

"Yes, you're right…"

He picked up the mugs on the coffee table and brought them in the kitchen. Irene Adler stood in the living room, arms tight against her.

"Doctor Watson… Thanks."

He looked at her.

"Thanks? Why?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know. But thank you."

John came back to her, and then led her to Sherlock bedroom.

"Go to bed now. You need to rest. Good night, Miss Adler."

"Yes… Good night, Doctor Watson."

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**Notes:**

Mary Morstan story is inspired by the literary canon. In "The Sign Of Four", she seeks Sherlock Holmes's help, meeting John Watson, who'll marry her. According to "The Empty House", she would have died between the "The Final Problem" events and those of "The Empty House".

Her mistake to call John "James" is taken from "The Man with the Twisted Lip".

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	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note:**

_Sherlock_ is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

.

.

**Chapter 9**

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John began the following days light-hearted. Sherlock was still on the field, but Baker Street became a more peaceful place. He had made contact with Irene Adler and began to do the same with Misha. He didn't pretend to replace anyone, but it helped to make the days more comfortable.

He ended up getting used to their presence in the flat. He rose in the morning, prepared breakfast. During the day, in his absence, Mrs. Hudson ensured a reassuring presence. Misha loved her, because she baked him lot of cakes. And, in the evening, he returned, Misha told him about his day, and he was cooking with Irene Adler, who had finally asked Mrs. Hudson to give her some cooking lessons, having no more staff to do it in her place.

"Sherlock gave news today?" He asked, opening a bottle of wine.

"Nothing. Nor Mycroft Holmes."

John let out an exasperated sigh.

"What are they waiting for? They could at least keep us informed, we at least know whether to worry or not."

The cork flew with a small "pop!". Irene Adler went to put the bowl on the table. Misha, who drew sitting on the sofa, put his pen down and took a chair. John smiled, watching him.

"I wish I could have a son like him," he appreciated. "It's just if we need to tell him what to do."

Irene Adler looked at him with an amused expression.

"In reaching this result, however, hasn't been easy," she admitted. "It took me a lot of patience and diplomacy. When he was two, he said 'no' to everything. He always put me to the test. Fortunately for me, I didn't give up."

She tied a towel around Misha's neck.

"Regarding the current case, I doubt that we should really worry about. No news is good news, they say. Not to mention that if things had changed in the wrong direction, the security would be enhanced. Or at least we would have noticed a significant change. Everything remaining in the state makes me thinks that the situation is now safe. I'm not saying that everything is better, but a fine thing is already a good thing."

"If we could at least hear from this fool, it would be better as well."

They sat down to table. Misha lifted his fork.

"Enjoy!" He chirped.

John stroked his hair, smiling. For a second, he really had the impression of what family life looked like. He remembered the day with Mary, and wondered if he could have lived these moments with her one day. Then he remembered Sherlock became a father unwillingly, and tried to imagine him at his place at the table.

"Otherwise," he started while Misha began his salad. "Did Sherlock mention… the…"

He cast a revealing look at the little boy. Irene Adler shook her head sadly.

"No. Since receiving this picture, I haven't had much opportunity to see him, much less talk to him. I think somewhere he considers him more as my son than his own. Once he presented him as such, but knowing him, he must have done it on purpose, so that his brother would agree to help me."

"It's perfectly like him."

"And I can understand that attitude. I called for help, and he came not knowing what to expect. He wasn't ready."

"And you think that one day…"

Irene Adler turned the tail of her glass between her fingers.

"The question wasn't asked, and I think that given the situation, it would be premature. I mean, I called him to help me, and that's what Mr. Holmes will do. I don't ask him more."

She took a sip of wine.

"He's who he is," she philosophized. "Seek to make him change is a bad idea. If he has to change, he will himself. I can't force him to admit, Doctor Watson, and I don't want it, even though I admit that it is my dearest wish."

"And the boy? Does he know about Sherlock?"

Irene Adler shook her head again.

"While this story isn't resolved and Mr. Holmes hasn't made a decision, no statement will be made. That's the best I can do. I can't disclose the existence of a father who wouldn't want him."

It was logical.

John was silent, watching Irene Adler before him. He advised the hairs, the brown roots were starting to become visible, the nails become shorter and without varnish because of Mrs. Hudson cooking lessons. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and dark circles of the first nights were still visible under her eyes.

"Listen, Miss Adler…"

"Irene."

He looked at her.

"What?"

"Irene." She put her wine glass down. "I say that because my situation and proximity, 'Miss Adler' may have become too formal. I think it would be more practical that we use our names, what do you think?"

John moved his shoulders, undecided. Irene Adler, despite recent events, was a little remained as a form of entity for him. She was little known, and she was more related to Sherlock than to him. Therefore, this step seemed somewhat obvious.

"I don't want to force you, Doctor Watson, I'm just saying…"

John looked up at her, but Irene Adler looked very serious. She offered no ulterior motive, because for her it was a logical step. Defeated by her innocence, he capitulated.

"Okay… Irene. In that case, call me John."

.

But despite the new step, John feared the coming days. Sherlock and Mycroft still didn't give news, and the weight of the confinement was beginning to be felt. Irene accommodated because she had no choice, so she spent time taking the necessary steps for the future of her american possessions. But Misha, unaware of the situation, turned around in the apartment without understanding why he wasn't allowed out. John did everything he could, he had taken of the Cluedo from the wall, downloaded films, Mrs. Hudson interfered with cooking lessons, but John felt it, nobody would take more than a week.

"_It starts to be tense here; they won't stay locked like that for a long time. News? _(JW) "

He had, of course, no response to his message. He resolved to an alternative and contacted Lestrade.

"_Hi, Greg. News from Sherlock?_ (JW) "

The return was fast and without appeal.

"_No, why?_ (GL) "

"_He's up to his neck in a case, I think you knew in a little more._ (JW) "

"_In this case, it's not from me. He even specifically asked me not to bother him with an investigation under any circumstances._ (GL) "

John was happy to know that Sherlock invested so much, but if they could have at least an indication of the progress of his research, it would help to pass the time.

"_Why, is he gone?_ (GL) "

"_Why do you think I'm asking?_ (JW) "

John dropped his hand holding the phone. A new SMS alert sounded, but he didn't bother to open the message. Instead, he wrote another:

"_Tell us, at least, if you're still alive, that would be good._ (JW) "

The response was as rapid as it was unexpected:

"_Still alive._ (SH) "

Far from reassuring, this terse SMS completed the exasperation. He didn't ask more precisely, certain that Sherlock would only point out that this was all that John had asked. However, he would have liked a little more willingness on the part of his friend.

Nevermind…

John looked at his phone. He knew Sherlock too much to know that insisting on his investigation would only make him muter. However, he had a multitude of topics likely to react.

"_Irene and I started to call us by our first names. Mrs. Hudson gives her cooking lessons…_ "

.

John counted three days before getting a response. And he wasn't disappointed.

Sherlock simply reappeared in Baker Street in the evening. John heard the front door open and close, then footsteps on the stairs. The small voice of Misha arose then:

"Mr. Sherlock!"

Sherlock saw the little boy rushing towards him, the deerstalker on his head. He had found the hat in the closet, looking for something to do, and didn't separate from it, even if the hat was a little big for him.

Sherlock mechanically stroked his hair in a gesture that was more of a reflex than affection. Then he entered the room, attracted by the smell of cooking.

John and Irene were there in front of the oven.

"Oh!" John said. "A ghost. It was time, they began to wonder if you'd come back one day."

"They are baking a cake for dessert!" Misha enthused.

Sherlock watched him fussing in the room as if he was watching a parallel dimension.

"Mrs. Hudson has been giving her cooking lessons since several days ago, I had told you by SMS," John explained. "And she just made herself her first recipe."

Sherlock turned his head toward Irene. Bare feet in the blue dressing gown, she was focused on cooking.

"Moreover, it should further ado," John went back to her.

He and Irene still remained motionless a few seconds, looking at the oven. John then opened it and pulled out what looked like a fruitcake.

"Well, let's see now…"

He took a knife and stuck it into the cake. A-side of him, Irene held her breath. John then pulled the knife, which was clean. The sentence fell:

"Successful cooking."

Irene let out an exclamation of joy. John applauded and raised her hand in victory.

"We'll see after for tasting, if no one is poisoned," he tempered.

Irene spontaneously gave him a slap behind the head.

Sherlock looked at them laughing without moving. Then John, after putting the knife and advised to wait for the cake to cool to unmold, approached him.

"It's about time you came back," he whispered, "I didn't know any more what to do to occupy them."

He cast a quick glance behind him to see Irene showing the cake to Misha.

"So, your research, what happens this time? Sherlock, they're tired of going around here without knowing what's going on outside. Tell us if there's at least a track or a solution."

But Sherlock barely heard the question. He looked at Irene, radiant before her first culinary feat. Her hairs had become brown again, but loose and curly iron. Her lips were not red, but pink. Her face had regained some colour and vitality.

John followed his gaze and understood.

"She's keeping busy as she may, what do you want? But she has something to do; she's organizing the future repatriation of her accounts and her business, because apparently she can no longer return to New York. The hardest thing is Misha. The poor boy, he's floundering here without being able to set foot outside. He's brought in a foreign country and doesn't even have the opportunity to see it, you must understand his frustration."

He went to the coffee table and rid Misha's drawings in order to lay the table.

"Mrs. Hudson helps a lot, she gives him things to do, and then we kill time as we can."

He gathered the chairs.

"So? Your research?"

"Distracted by your incessant texts."

John opened his arms and let them fall.

"You haven't given any news," he justified. "We don't even know if the situation had improved or had worsened. I had to make you react, to make you tell us how it went. I agree that you're busy, but it would be nice not to forget them."

"Anyway, they risk nothing. They have a brilliant doctor to watch over them."

John looked at Sherlock. He wasn't very sure he understood the meaning of the reflection.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock turned his head towards him. His face was frozen in an unreadable expression. And, without knowing how, John understood.

Jealousy.

John paused for a time. In his head, then marched successively multiple emotions.

Surprise. Bewilderment. Petrifaction.

Dismay.

His mouth rounded a silent exclamation when he looked at Sherlock before him. His shoulders fell back, weighed down by the chock. He froze, mouth opened.

He watched his friend, broken by stupor.

Jealousy. Sherlock Holmes was jealous. Then dismay vanished and turned into annoyance.

Sherlock had disappeared for over a week now, leaving Irene and her son locked in an apartment they didn't know they could go out one day. John had to use every conceivable subject to break his silence. He understood the need for discretion in his research, but was it too much to give, from time to time, an indication of their progress? No, he disappeared without a word, true to form, leaving John to manage everything alone. And he pretended to come back, heart in mouth, to reproach him his closeness to Irene?

Sherlock had disappeared more than a week. What did he want John to do? Pretend they weren't there?

He felt anger rising in him. At the situation progressed, at least he understood the behaviour of his friend.

"You were always hanging out, never at home, what did you think, genius?"

Sherlock was silent. His lips were tight. He considered John fiercely planted before him, Irene still in the kitchen, who watched with concern, and Misha with his deerstalker on the head. His body swung, as if to leave, then he seemed to remember something.

"We went back to a cell next to Greenwich," he announced then. "It's already under surveillance. I'm not saying that neutralization will solve all problems, but it will be one less worry."

John immediately knew what was coming, and his shoulders fell back.

"Sherlock, you're ridiculous…"

Too late. He turned and left the house. The front door slammed, and there was silence.

.

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	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note:**

_Sherlock_ is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

.

.

**Chapter 10**

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.

It was the phone that awoke John in the middle of the night. Eyes confused, he had trouble reading the name that was displayed while ringing twisted his ears.

Lestrade.

"Greg?" He answered. "Why are you calling at this hour?"

"_Sorry, John. But it's Sherlock…_"

John sat up in bed immediately, his belly embraced by an overwhelming fear.

"What's happening? Is he okay?"

"_At the moment I'm talking to you, the ambulance took him to the hospital. He…_"

"Hospital? Which hospital?" John cut him off.

"_Lewisham. It was the closest._"

"I… I'm coming."

He hung up without being able to let Lestrade give him details.

Sherlock was in A&E. What the hell had that prat done again? John put his trousers on in a hurry, rushed down the stairs and was about to knock on Irene's door before stopping.

He paused, gathering elements in his head.

Sherlock had talked about a cell in Greenwich. Lewisham was just below. John closed his eyes, realizing what must have happened. This idiot certainly had wanted to be the hero again…

Finally, instead of waking Irene, he took his mobile phone and dialed a number. If people expected precisely that John would leave Baker Street, it was better to be careful. So he contacted Mycroft, who was already aware of what happened to his brother and asked him to cover the apartment in case of intruders would take advantage of his absence. Then he grabbed his coat, went out running into the street and went in search of a taxi.

"Those ones weren't very clever," Lestrade thought, "they filed him three miles away. They have gone further, perhaps we wouldn't have made the connection."

"What happened?" John asked for the third time.

"The call of an individual who specifically asked after me. According to this person, she watched evening programs when she heard a car skidding on the street. She thought it was thugs of the neighbourhood and looked out her window. She just had time to see a dark van and two individuals throw another on the sidewalk. She rushed and Sherlock had the strength to tell her to call me."

John listened to the story, shaking his head.

"How is he?"

"For what I've seen, not a pretty sight. He got it in the neck. But according to the surgeon, his life is not in danger. I think we should rather see it as a warning."

"And the cell?"

"Fled away. We found locals, but empty. The competent authorities are over it."

John sank into a chair in the waiting room.

"So everything has to be redone," he summed up. "When I think of the time they made up the track."

"Not sure."

John looked up at Lestrade.

"What do you mean?"

"When I arrived, Sherlock had left something to my attention."

"Really? What?"

"A mobile phone. He has certainly stolen one from his attackers. It's already in the hands of Mycroft's men to get what they can. There may be names, contacts…"

"Great."

His irony wasn't lost on Lestrade who looked surprised.

"You know Sherlock, John. Always cramming in not possible stuff. While I admit that a terrorist cell is anything but a serial killer. What sent him there?"

John didn't answer. He wanted to tell him, tell him about Irene and Misha, but as long as their security was not guaranteed, all the people who knew were bound to secrecy. And less of them there were, the better.

Instead, he decided to lie:

"A job for Mycroft, the highly sensitive nature. I'm not even in the game, that's to say."

"My… Mycroft must have a strange sense of family to send his brother to the frontline like that."

"I know Sherlock, Greg. He must have taken the decision himself."

Finally, a surgeon left the block, a clipboard in hands. John and Lestrade tensed immediately.

"So, doctor?"

"We maintained him," reassured the surgeon, "and he must remain under observation. He has bruises, hematomas, two cracked ribs and a head trauma, but nothing fatal. There will be no consequences."

John felt a weight leave his shoulders.

"When can we see him?" He inquired.

"Not now, anyway. The nurse should make him four stitches to the scalp, and he must recover. Tomorrow, at the end of the day, he will be able to speak."

John did what he could to avoid stamping with impatience.

"Can we do something?" He asked.

Still the old doctor reflex seeking to be helpful. But it was Lestrade who answered.

"Let them do their job, John. We can do nothing more but wait until he gets better."

John wanted to protest, still wanting to be helpful, but the brave DI put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

"Go home, John, you need to rest. You'll come back tomorrow evening, when he will regain consciousness."

John knew that Lestrade was right. It was just…

"Yeah, you're right. Good night, Greg."

.

When John returned to Baker Street, the day pointed to it. He climbed the stairs and fell heavily on the sofa, not having the strength to go up to his room. He buried his face in his hands, trying to channel his distress.

He had never felt so helpless. Sherlock was in A&E, with cracked ribs and a head injury, and he could do nothing but wait. He often had the opportunity to be on the low side, but it was more by fate. There, it was by impotence. He felt helpless. And even worse, useless.

He thought about Irene and Misha, who slept ignoring all events of that night. Irene would certainly ask to see him. Mycroft would definitely make him all the reproaches of the world. But who could he blame? He had done nothing wrong. He just ignored how Sherlock was able to show himself as possessive. Possessive and stupid. Because that was exactly what it was about. He blamed John for taking Irene and Misha with too much importance for his taste, forgetting that this was all because of him. Sherlock could say what he wanted, John couldn't find his responsibility in all this.

.

John managed to stay silent for two days before confessing everything to Irene. She looked horrified by the news, before asking how Sherlock was.

He was doing well, at least better. He was still in the hospital, but was transferred to St Barts for convenience. John visited him when he could, he was regularly informed of his condition, although he suspected that his injuries weren't reabsorbed as quickly.

As John had predicted, Irene firmly asked to see him. She didn't care about her security. Sherlock was in the hospital because of her, she felt logical and normal to go to his bedside.

John didn't argue, he knew in advance that it would be useless. However, he phoned Mycroft to warn their displacement. And he was hardly surprised when he saw the elder Holmes next to Sherlock bedroom door, on their arrival in the hospital corridor. Still stiff and paradoxically smooth, he granted John a nod.

"Sherlock rests," he announced. "Some discretion is therefore required."

But John had no use for his warnings. Mycroft didn't impress him since a long time. He might be the government, but John didn't give a damn about his responsibilities and his prerogatives, as they all were.

"None of that with me, Mycroft, and you know it," he hissed. "You are therefore requested to keep your comments to yourself."

Mycroft pursed his lips, annoyed, and then his eyes fell on Irene, who held his gaze.

"As I said," he repeated, "he rests."

"Should I at least be given the opportunity to ask about his health?"

Mycroft let out a forced smile before her insulting politeness. But he didn't react.

"As John certainly told you, my brother suffers from bruises, hematomas, two cracked ribs and a head injury. He also had to undergo stitches to the scalp."

Irene couldn't suppress a glance towards Sherlock's room. She saw a mass of hair on the pillow, encircled by a bandage. Misha, who held Irene hand, looked up at her.

"Mr. Sherlock is not well?" He asked with his small voice.

Irene didn't answer, merely shaking his hand to reassure him.

"Yes, '_Mr. Sherlock is not well_'," Mycroft cold voice confirmed and Irene looked at him with a glare. "You can brag, my dear, for having done a remarkable job. I could even tolerate the existence of this boy (and he pointed Misha), but I can no longer tolerate what you did to my brother. The situation was better off without you, and if this weren't for the deep respect I have for Doctor Watson here, I would have made you deport in minute."

A dreadful silence fell. John froze, stunned, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Then everything fell into place and he felt an icy pole down along his spine. Did Sherlock and Mycroft really think that…?

For fuck sake! They had put the flat under 24/7 surveillance, how could they believe those bullshits?

Equally motionless, petrified, her mouth twisted into a horrified grimace, Irene looked at Mycroft before her, unable to utter a word. And him, honey, triumphant, to casually swinging his umbrella at his fingertips, enjoying with evident pleasure the view of The Woman beaten.

Unfortunately for Mycroft, years of practice had given Irene skills which she was delighted to bestow. And, raising her hand, she aimed a blow at him that almost made him switch to the side.

Another silence fell on the corridor, and the snap of the slap seemed to pass to infinity. Irene's eyes were blurred with tears sliding down her cheeks, but she did nothing to hide them.

Mycroft rubbed his sore cheek, trying to regain his composure. He looked at Irene with pity, which she didn't seem to care.

"You can think what you want of me, Mycroft Holmes; drop me off at the border if that is your pleasure. But I won't tolerate a second longer that you put into question the integrity of Doctor Watson."

"Doctor Watson?" Mycroft smiled. "It's no longer _John_?"

John jaws clenched. He had always been good in front of Mycroft, despite his deep antipathy for him. But this time, he wanted to take one of the chairs of the corridor and to throw it at his head.

"Doctor John Watson is an honest man who deserves respect," Irene lashed. "It seems that this is a concept that you have difficulties in assimilating. But I don't expect less from a pen-pusher as you."

The insult made Mycroft scowl, but Irene ignored him. She walked firmly to Sherlock's room, which was asleep under the influence of sedatives.

"John is your friend, Mr. Holmes, and I never would have come to the idea of taking advantage of him, nor does he would benefit me. Your insinuations are insulting, displaced, and totally unfounded."

She approached the bed and put a hand on Sherlock's.

"I don't know if you hear what I say. But know that I expected better of you. John is a good man. I respect his kindness, Mr. Holmes, and I had hoped that you would do so preventing such ideas come to your mind."

Then she stood up, left the room and took the hand of Misha who looked up at her.

"Why the man doesn't love you?" He innocently wanted to know.

Irene took a quick glance at Mycroft.

"Because he's an idiot, darling."

She turned to John.

"We'll return to Baker Street. Let us know when he has regained consciousness and Mr Mycroft Holmes is busy elsewhere."

Then she turned away, with the dignity of a queen, and walked away.

.

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.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note:**

_Sherlock_ is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

.

.

**Chapter 11**

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.

.

John didn't really know why his steps led him there. Maybe it was a reflex or an unconscious desire in these unusual times, walking in known footsteps. Still, when he found himself facing a door and he looked up, he recognized the entrance of the morgue.

Without thinking, he entered.

The white tiled room was empty, only two refrigerated compartments were labeled. He looked around him, unable to know what he could have wanted to do here.

Almost immediately, he recalled the many investigations which had led him there with Sherlock, corpses, routine exams… It was at a time when their collaboration was simpler, easier, when it was obvious.

What had changed?

It wasn't the same. Or, John felt it, it wouldn't ever be the same. Irene Adler had returned from the dead. Her too. And there was Misha. Sherlock could now runaway as much as he wanted, nothing would ever be the same.

The office door opened then, and Molly appeared.

"John?" She wondered. "What are you doing here?"

He looked at her like he was still looking at her since Sherlock's return a year earlier. Not that she had become unpleasant, but she had been the one with which Sherlock had requested the assistance needed to go. Therefore, John had always kept a bottom of jealousy for the young examiner.

At first, he didn't understand. Why Molly? Why Molly and not him? For months, the same old song was shot in his head. _It should have been me_. After all, Sherlock had always treated her with indifference, oblivious to her signals, only manifesting warmth on purpose. Now, Sherlock had greater confidence in her, treated her less rudely, to the point that at one time John hadn't asked if… Molly was his friend's rare interlocutor during his three years of disappearance, and John had felt for the young woman a confused rivalry.

It was all water under the bridge, now; John had learned to put water in his wine. When he realized what had involved her contribution, the choice was ultimately proved quite logical. But there was now between her and Sherlock a piece of history that John would never know.

John shook his head, unable to know the answer to her question.

"I don't know," he confessed.

He looked around him.

"I think I needed a familiar environment…"

Despite his new relationship with Irene and Misha, Baker Street wasn't the environment he knew, John and Sherlock's environment. The morgue was one of the few places where they had their habits and Irene hadn't invested.

Molly looked gently, though with a kind of pain on her face.

"How is he?"

"Under the effect of sedatives. We expect him to wake up sooner or later."

Molly nodded, biting her lip, then lifted her head, then lowered and raised her head again, with the obvious hesitation that belonged only to her.

"And…," she began. "Uh… her?"

John looked at her. _Her_?

Molly was looking up at him, ready to flee.

"Did she come? I mean…"

John's heart skipped a beat when he realized who she was talking about. _She knew?_

"You knew?"

Molly looked mutely.

"Uh… yes," she confessed. "Sorry! That is to say…"

She paused, unable to know how to explain.

John could no longer understand. Molly knew about Irene Adler. While he was the first to emphasize the need for total discretion on the subject, Sherlock spoke about Irene to Molly.

"Why?"

John couldn't remember the brittle tone of his voice. Molly looked down.

"He… I mean… He wanted… to tell me."

"Why?"

She looked at him. There was a form of desperate momentum in her eyes.

"He didn't know how to react. He told me… to ask me for an advice."

John received the new in the plexus. _Asked her for an advice?_

Molly hadn't moved from her place, and was nervously fiddling her fingers.

"Honestly, when he told me what was going on… Well, I… Obviously, I was surprised."

John didn't answer, forcing her to continue.

"He told me… that a woman he had known had reappeared… And that she had a child with him."

The colour disappeared from John's face. And he ranted at Sherlock mentally a thousand times. Once again, his friend's lack of tact showed brilliantly.

Molly had a well-known crush on Sherlock. And Sherlock knew himself to the point of not having hesitated to use it many times. And to this woman who was in love with him, to this woman who was devoted to him, to this woman he had put in turmoil by making her accomplice of his false suicide and witness of the pain of his kinfolks, to this woman he had admitted the existence of another one and her child. To this woman, he had sought advice about another woman and her son.

With this sense of sacrifice that characterized her, Molly had certainly had to do everything she could to help him, hiding her little broken heart behind her disarming enthusiasm.

"Everything was so sudden," she continued. "He didn't know which position to take. He was… lost. So he told me about it… to try to see clearly."

Beyond amazement, John then began to understand the situation.

"What was wrong?" He wanted to know.

Molly shrugged.

"He hasn't given me details. But I mean… It's Sherlock, John. We all know how Sherlock is. And suddenly, this woman of the past reappeared in his life with his child. He didn't know… how to handle it. He was conscious of doing something wrong by being away so long, but he didn't know how to cope."

John then treated himself as an idiot. He had been wrong to assign his friend attempts at escape. He had been wrong to believe his absent as denial of the obvious. Instead, he was there with the brave Molly, now trying to make the point, trying to find out whether or not he was ready.

He fell on a stool, rubbed his tired face. Sherlock hadn't abandoned them, he just needed time. And John, stupidly, flooding him with stupid messages accusing him of dropping.

If Sherlock had really wanted to scroll, he wouldn't have failed to say, with his cold characteristic frankness. Just that, faced with a situation he didn't mastered, he had stepped aside by fear of not knowing how to control it.

It was not the will to flee that sent Sherlock take risks in Greenwich, it was the will to finish. The will to save, once again, the only woman who really mattered to him.

Irene had to know. It was imperative to know how they were wrong. John went to get his mobile phone, but it rang first.

"Hello?"

"_John, help!_"

It was Irene.

"Irene? What's going on?"

"_This is Misha! He's been shot!_"

.

John rushed at full gallop, but fortunately, Misha had nothing.

His survival, moreover, was hanging by a pure miracle.

Following her confrontation with Mycroft, Irene had turned back, hailing a cab back to Baker Street. It was at Oxford Circus that the event had taken place, with a speed and a disconcerting fluidity.

The taxi had slowed at a red light, giving the sniper in an unmarked car a great window of opportunity. But a hurried pedestrian had then crossed the road, surprising the taxi that had suddenly braked. Carried away by the movement, Misha had been a bit tilted forward during the split second necessary to enable him to avoid the projectile that, after breaking the glass of the door, went to file in the back of the rear seat.

Months of alarm gave Irene a quick sense of reflex. The window was just shattered she had already rushed to her son, covering his body, while the other vehicle had no other choice than to escape.

CCTV had certainly had to film something; it would be certainly a breeze for the Yard to identify the vehicle. However, John promised to have a word to Mycroft about the lack of protection he had promised to offer.

Lestrade had arrived with his men and took the crime scene management. Meanwhile, a police vehicle brought Irene to Baker Street where she proclaimed not wanting to leave as her son wouldn't have a protection worthy of the name.

As he had promised, John dragged Mycroft over the coals for being so irresponsible, and all the coolness of the world couldn't save the elder Holmes. John criticized his selfish and childish attitude that had endangered the life of a three year old little boy. Mycroft had to put in place adequate devices to prevent the former army doctor to use more powerful arguments.

"And the mobile phone, you have found something?"

Mycroft did his best not to wince at John's mood.

"We have learned many contacts we're checking," he evaded.

"And meanwhile, these gentlemen are finding a new cover," John quipped. "You planted cameras in every corner, and it's just if they are useful. To follow my trail, they are perfect, but to get hold of terrorists stupid enough to dump Sherlock on the sidewalk just three miles from their base, it makes you wonder what they do."

"Doctor Watson…," Mycroft said impatiently. "Despite the utility of calving a terrorist cell, this action was initiated not by interest in the nation, but by interest in one person. You'll understand that it must be as unobtrusive as possible. Unfortunately, discretion is often accompanied by some form of slow."

John knew that Mycroft was a little right, but he would have been pulling his arm rather than admit it. He thought about Misha, forced to undergo events he didn't even understand, because Mycroft Holmes, for the sake of discretion, had to handle it with kid gloves.

"You advanced, at least?"

"Unfortunately, I can't provide you with this information."

John felt his shoulders fall to the perfect formality of the answer.

"Yes, of course," he chewed.

And he turned.

.

The EEG was stable, had confirmed the doctor. The brain wasn't damaged. John sat next to the hospital bed, tired from the day. Sherlock was lying with his head bandaged. His face unshaven or maintained made him look like a convict.

The effect of the sedative had worn off, and he was awake. He turned his head to look at John, tried to sit up, but his cracked ribs made him grimace and he gave up.

"I talked to the doctor," John told as a preamble. "You've still for a week for your head injury and about three weeks to your ribs. Besides medicines for pain. So I'm afraid that you'll have to arm yourself with patience."

Sherlock didn't answer, and his body collapsed on itself. John could almost hear him saying that patience was boring. Indeed, it was far from one of his primary virtues.

John looked at him in silence. He remembered Molly's words, and he was more shameful. Lord, how could they go so wrong? And this fool wasn't far behind. How could he think for a moment that there might be something between him and Irene despite that science of deduction which he was so proud of? He agreed to understand that love - or whatever it may be in their case - was blind, but from an observant man as Sherlock, it was absolutely unthinkable.

"I met Molly yesterday," John continued. "I went to the morgue, without knowing why. She told me about you."

While Sherlock turned his head, silent, John didn't look down.

"Sherlock… Why didn't you say anything?"

Silence alone replied, John stared at it a time.

"Listen, I blame you not to have said anything, and I blame myself not to have seen anything. What I wonder is why didn't you come and talk to me?"

He leaned on the plastic chair in the hospital.

"I don't want to appear to be whining, but you never tell me. Your fake suicide, you didn't tell me, Irene's survival, you didn't tell me, and now you didn't tell me about your feelings for her."

He sighed.

"Not that it's any of my business, but talk is it not what friends do, usually? You thought I couldn't help you, perhaps?"

With a weak smile, John put his hand to his neck and pulled the small chain with the small alliance.

"This is where you're wrong, Sherlock. Because you see, I loved too. I know that we didn't get married for the right reasons, I know I wasn't the most wonderful husband, but I loved her."

He put the small chain back in his shirt.

"Finally, we're not so different in this area, you and me. Torn between the present and the past. I was torn between my marriage and my memories. And you, you're torn between your feelings and your resolutions.

He looked at the room around him.

"I can't pretend to know her as you know her, Sherlock, but she's not the same woman. She has changed. She's a mother now, with new priorities. And Misha is such a nice boy. He's adorable, I assure you. I admit that sometimes I think that this is the son I wish I had. But he looks like you too much for that. You know he has developed a new craze? He keeps repeating that he's bored. I hear you when he does that. I think when he'll grow up, he won't have much to envy you. He already never leaves your deerstalker… I envisage offering him a magnifying glass on his next birthday, with a little coat."

John smiled alone in imagining Misha's future. In primary school, secondary school, high school… Maybe he would study science, follow the paternal imprints. Or maybe he would surprise them, wanting to be a graphic designer or a decorator. John already saw Sherlock looking up to heaven before his career.

One thing was certainly safe for John, now: if Sherlock had felt the need to reflect on how to behave, it was a sign he was considering his role seriously. Or at least he wanted to make a conscious decision. If really reconsidering his status and duties didn't matter, he would never have bothered.

The feeble voice of Sherlock then rose, rocky:

"John… I'm sorry…"

"Of course you are, I'm not stupid."

John then paused for a few moments, feeling tiredness filling his eyelids. He was so sleepy… He thought about Misha, scared to death at Baker Street, after the assassination attempt. It was obviously an assassination attempt, premeditation wasn't in doubt. The question that arose was whether to talk to Sherlock. He took a considerable risk in Greenwich for Irene, he was perfectly capable of the worst for Misha.

"Look… I don't know if Mycroft and Greg held you informed," John started with a little hesitation, "and if this is not the case, it wouldn't surprise me from Mycroft. And honestly, I don't know if I should tell you about it, but…"

He rubbed his eyes, which were beginning to sting.

"There was an incident," he confessed. "At Oxford Circus. Irene came to see you with Misha learning what happened to you. On the return trip, they faced a gunshot."

He felt Sherlock tense suddenly, as if he was going to rise quickly.

"What?"

"They have nothing," John reassured, raising his hands to calm him. "It came within inches, but they're safe. They're at Baker Street, and a team is watching over them constantly. I had to scold Mycroft for it, but at least they're safe."

Sherlock seemed to relax a little, but John guessed him very attentive.

"Poor Misha is terrorized, put yourself in his place. Mrs. Hudson is with him and Lestrade is on the case. Without giving details, I told him you were concerned, and he promised to do his best. For cons, I have not managed to get Mycroft to talk. They extracted a lot of contacts in the mobile phone that you were able to steal, they're trying to control everything, but he refused to say more."

"He must certainly ensure his back, in case the result isn't up to his expectations," Sherlock assumed whose voice was somewhat heated. "This is not a formal investigation, it will certainly be held accountable if it fails."

John raised an eyebrow in surprise. It was hard to imagine someone in higher position than Mycroft.

"For cons, next time, avoid if you can to throw yourself in front of a terrorist cell alone like an idiot, you would avoid anguish to many people. You believed you were in Doctor Who, or what? "_Hey, look at me, I'm a target!_"

"I don't understand that reference."

John shook his head wearily.

"Stop this, you give me hives. This is because you goofed around that you ended up in this hospital bed. This is because you ended up in this hospital bed that Irene set foot outside Baker Street. If you hadn't pushed her out, Misha would never have to face that risk. Today, he's hidden in his room, the apartment is under constant surveillance, and your terrorist buddies must already be far away."

Sherlock tried again to get up, ignoring the pain in his chest.

"You think I wanted this? I didn't do this! This, this wasn't me!"

"This was exactly you. All this. All of it. You make them so afraid."

Sherlock looked sluggish.

"When you began all those years ago, solving crimes, did you ever think you'd become this? The man who can make terrorists panicking at the mention of his name. "Detective Sherlock Holmes". The word for investigator throughout the world. We get that word from you, you know. But if you carry on the way you are, what might that word come to mean?"

He raised a learned finger.

"In Latin, it comes from the word '_detegere_', which means '_to discover_'. And look what you've become. And now they're laying into a child. The child of the only woman you loved. And they turned him into a target just to bring you down. And all this, Sherlock, in fear of you."

John was silent. After such a demonstration, he had nothing more to add.

Sherlock was extended, unable to know what to say. Yes, John was right. It was a detective. Consulting detective. He wasn't a superhero braving adversity alone, like in films. His role was limited to crime scenes and other puzzles. And today, his actions almost cost the life of his son. He clenched his fists, enraged to known himself so helpless.

"Do you love her?"

John's question took him by surprise. He looked confused.

"What?"

"Irene. Do you love her?"

Sherlock's gaze was faraway, and John already knew he wouldn't answer. He remembered about Irene on this issue: "_I doubt that our mutual affection can be described by a term as generic as ' _love_'. We certainly have the symptoms, but we're both two prisoners of our contradictions. Both driven by our feelings and locked by our pride_". He leaned back in the chair.

"I know that you attach great importance to the image you project. The cold and brilliant detective Sherlock Holmes. It's part of your character. But you know, we can be brilliant without being sociopath. I mean… Nobody will blame you if you change a little."

He returned to his friend who hadn't moved.

"Look, I know what it is when news as huge as this falls on you. More than once, I also felt the ground open under my feet. You weren't aware of, and she's fully conscious of that. She knows she made a mistake, she knows she would have told you before."

He scratched the back of his head, looking for the best way to formulate his thoughts.

"What I mean is… She asks nothing. She never asked you anything. She just wanted your help for the threats she received. And you know what amuses me the most, Sherlock "not-my-area" Holmes? It was you who felt the need to reflect on this issue."

And John did what he could to suppress a smile. Because he came to realize that it was exactly that. It was Sherlock who had taken the initiative to question his status.

"I didn't say anything to Irene," John continued. "Not yet. I don't want to give her false hope if your findings are negative. Let me just give you a tip, if it helps you: think of her first."

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Then two weeks later, everything happened at once.

Lestrade informed John that they had traced the shooter, and laid hands on arms trafficking. By doing so, he announced that the Yard had been involved in a major haul in association with the Special Branch of MI5, and at the moment they talked, the arrests took place throughout the country. Lestrade went so far as to say that leads they followed were going beyond borders, and he knew from the horse's mouth that MI6 was on the spot.

John greeted the news with satisfaction and relief. He knew that with the first arrests, the case took an official turn, giving Mycroft a free hand to do as he pleased.

Mycroft, being busy, didn't appear during the following days. But he bothered to inform John that Sherlock was able to leave the hospital. John didn't hesitate one second, he gathered Irene and Misha, and they rushed into a taxi and spun right in at St Barts.

They arrived when Sherlock was undergoing a final review before permission to leave. Lestrade was already there and watched them arrive.

"Hey, John! I went by chance, and I learned he was leaving today…"

He stopped, noting the presence of Irene and Misha. His eyebrows rose in surprise to the little boy.

"Hello, Greg," John bowed.

"Hello, John. Uh… Madam, hello…"

"Miss," Irene corrected.

"Miss… Hello… And you are?"

"Irene Adler. Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector Lestrade. We haven't had the opportunity to meet, even though you have worked on a case about me."

"Really? Which one?"

"This shot of a taxi, at Oxford Circus. John told me that it was you who were put on the case."

John marked no surprise. Of course she knew Lestrade's identity. He looked at Misha who smiled innocently under his deerstalker.

"This is my son, Misha."

"Hello, sir!" The little boy saluted.

"Uh… Hello, fellow."

Lestrade threw a confused look to John.

"Did I miss something?" The DI asked.

Irene exchanged a look with John, probably waiting to know how to turn the conversation. John was going to raise fatalistic shoulders, but he was interrupted by the doctor who was leaving the room.

"Well," he summed up by looking the clipboard, "examination is positive. I'm just waiting for radiographies to give a definite diagnosis. If this is the case, he'll return home. Here."

John turned to see nurse holding a large white envelope. The doctor took it and went back into the room.

John stood in the hallway, waiting for the results. Lestrade, meanwhile, couldn't stop staring at Misha.

"John…," he hesitated. "Is it what I think?"

"It depends. What do you think?"

The DI detailed the boy for the tenth time, notifying the brown curls, the chubby cheeks, and the characteristic shape of the lips. With this deerstalker on his head, it was just as if there was a possible doubt.

He cleared his throat, uncomfortable.

"I apologize for my curiosity, miss," he launched, "but may I ask who you are?"

Irene stifled an amused smile at Lestrade's obvious discomfort.

"A more or less close relationship to the Holmes family," she replied mischievously.

Lestrade paused, looked at her, looked at Misha, and then looked at John.

"John… seriously," he insisted, pointing at the little boy.

And John did something he had never done before. He mimicked Sherlock and used one of his expressions:

"I leave you to your own deductions, Greg."

It didn't take more for the DI to open the mouth in amazement and to drop into a chair, completely groggy. No words came to him, but the trajectory of his thoughts was displayed in large letters on his face.

John and Irene exchanged glances. They both knew that anyway, the information would eventually be known.

The doctor then left the room.

"It's okay," he announced, "Mr. Holmes has the right to leave. His cracked ribs aren't yet completely well, so I don't recommend lunges. I'll write a prescription for painkillers, the rest is time and rest."

John smiled.

"Thank you, doctor."

"Is it possible for me to see him?" Irene asked then.

The doctor glanced over his shoulder.

"Yes, of course. I'll come back to complete his folder."

"Thank you."

The doctor went away, and Irene leaned Misha.

"I'm going to talk with Mr. Sherlock," she said softly. "Stay with John, waiting."

"I want to see Mr. Sherlock, me too!" The little boy protested.

John put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"You'll talk to him, don't worry. But for now, your mother wants to discuss alone."

Irene thanked him with a smile, and went into the room.

Sherlock was finishing buttoning his shirt. He finally had the opportunity to shave and his attire was cleaner. A yellowish bruise nevertheless flourished on his cheekbone. He turned his head at her heels slamming against the ground.

They stared, motionless, him next to his bed, her in front of the door. Not a word was spoken, but it was as if, in a single glance, they exchanged more than all the words in the world. Irene walked slowly, he watched her come to him.

She stopped in front of him, and they settled again, all expressing their emotions of bygone days. Fear, loneliness, jealousy. But again, no words came. And when Sherlock wanted to speak, Irene raised her finger on his lips, shaking his head imperceptibly. She knew.

He looked at her, small and petite, her long brown hair cascading over her shoulders, her red hot lips. She guessed him, she understood him. She was the only person to have been able to read him as much as he couldn't. He didn't need to talk. He didn't need to tell her how sorry he was. Sorry for being so stupid, sorry for not being there, sorry for not having been able to choose the words. He didn't need to tell her that…

She knew.

She smiled at him with incredible tenderness. She moved her hands, took his, and he let her do it. And without stopping looking at him, without ceasing to delve into these changing colour eyes, gently and patiently, she grabbed his wrist, and put her fingers on his veins.

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John looked motionless, with polite discretion. He looked Irene put her finger on Sherlock's lips to silence him. He looked at the strong and unwavering bond developing between them. And when he saw Irene taking Sherlock's hands and putting her fingers on his veins, he knew. He didn't need to read or ask, he knew, simply. He shook Misha's little hand in his, thinking about overnight. He knew it would be long, but he knew it would be there. He knew it would be hard. Sherlock would probably still have long way to go, it would take the time it would take, but John knew he would achieve.

Then he saw Sherlock grab his mobile phone in his inside pocket without a word and type something. A few seconds later, Irene mobile phone rang. She took it and opened the message, and her smile could outshine the sun.

"_Let's have dinner._"

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	12. Chapter 12 - Epilogue

**Author's note:**

_Sherlock_ is a TV show created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis. Characters, scenarios, quotes and all its relatives are the property of BBC, Hartswood Films Ltd and Masterpiece.

This work is an english translation of "C'était il y a Quatre Ans" fanfic, still by me.

English is not my first language, so thank you for the great Asian-Inkwell who beta'd the whole story.

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**Epilogue**

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**One year later…**

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"Sherlock, you can't conduct Yard surveys at your leisure," John protested.

"I'll abstain if only the Yard knew to nominate the right people."

Lestrade rubbed his tired face. Here they go again.

They were on the trail of a City banker strongly suspected of being complicit in the murder of his mistress. At least Sherlock had come to this conclusion, with this speed and this tact of his own. And the only way to approach the damn banker was to take bait into his net. An agent with all possible recommendations had been sent on a mission to infiltrate, but Sherlock had immediately imposed veto as soon as she set foot in the office, causing muscular verbal exchange.

"Do you only pay attention to your target, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked learnedly. "Trader of the City, Victorian residence in Chelsea. Three-piece tailored suit, virgin wool shirt with back cuffs and cufflinks in brass, half Windsor knot tie, silk pouch, leather shoes. His car must be in his image, probably a Jaguar. Our man is rich, but he's not a show-off, or a gambler. He knows what he wants. This isn't the type to be seduced by his secretary or the first business student, the identity of his mistress confirms this. No offense to your skills, agent Scott, but you're definitely not his type of woman."

Agent Scott pursed her lips to the insult and Lestrade gave up to discuss. When Sherlock made this kind of demonstration, he had learned to be silent.

"Okay," he complied, "in this case, what's his type of woman?"

Sherlock leaned against the seat.

"Obvious, Lestrade. We need a woman who looks like him. Racy woman, elegant. Woman strong enough to resist him…"

The rest of the room waited for him to continue, but Sherlock had suddenly stopped.

"Sherlock?" John hesitated.

He had stopped in the middle of the description, as if a sudden idea had come to his mind.

"Oh…," he let escape.

Then he suddenly pulled out his mobile phone and, without paying attention to others, dialed a number. John had the feeling that he knew who he contacted. And the voice that answered only confirmed this impression.

"_Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes_."

"Miss Adler," Sherlock bowed.

Lestrade looked immediately at him with a long face. Irene Adler? He wasn't serious…

"_What do I owe the pleasure of your call?_"

"I am currently with the Detective Inspector Lestrade, we're on a case, and I thought about your collaboration."

"_Oh, you want to include me in your investigations? Very generous of you. Well, the thing can be done. When do you need me?_"

"Honestly? Now."

He heard Irene suppress a laugh.

"_I'm afraid I'm a little busy, dear… Down!_"

The whip immediately slammed into the handset, a groan arose. Loud enough to be heard by all the other people in the room. Donovan's face twisted in both amazement and disgust.

"_In what way would consist my collaboration?_" Irene continued imperturbably.

"A simple infiltration. Shoeing a fish, if you prefer."

"_I am now, you must have guessed, in the middle of an appointment. My collaboration should really be immediate?_"

"Tie him up. Gag him if necessary. Your participation won't last more than two hours, just enough to get his attention. Then you'll restart where you left off."

"You really know the art of talking to women," John sighed, raising his eyebrows wearily.

"_Isn't he?_" Irene, who had heard, smiled.

She hesitated a moment, then agreed.

"_That's OK. Give me time to prepare. Do I need underwear?_"

"As you wish."

"_Very well. I'll be in Mr. Lestrade office in half an hour._"

Sherlock hung up without a word, and then looked up at the commissary whose expression varied between annoyance and bewilderment.

"You asked for my help," Sherlock argued without disassemble, "I bring you my help. You can still send the agent Scott if you feel like it, but I doubt that your suspect will be sensitive to her charms."

"Because you think he will be more receptive to those of your girlfriend?" The commissary hissed.

John had a smile at that. "_Girlfriend_" was certainly the less accurate term to define Irene's situation toward Sherlock.

After calving the first terrorist cell, Irene had acquired the status of a witness, with all the protection which it was responsible. So she had repatriated her life in London, and helped by an almost mother-in-law who had been informed by a very complaisant Mycroft, she had found for her and Misha a new home in Kensington, and took up again with the least compromising of her former clients. The case of Buckingham had been her lesson. Sherlock was remained at Baker Street, but they met regularly. It was the best compromise they could reach. As intimate as they may be, John doubted that they could take one day the initiative of settling under the same roof. Sherlock still had difficulties with Misha, but only time could fix it. However, he was careful to treat Irene obligingly.

So he had to keep facing the reflection of the commissary, giving him in reply a caustic smile.

"I'll let you be the judge of that," he quipped, reducing commissary into silence.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair, closed the file in front of him and rubbed his eyes. Wait was now all they could do.

"How is Misha, otherwise?"

John had to restrain himself from laughing. Misha was doing very well, thank you, even if he had more tendency to look like his father. He recently won fame with his nurse pouring a mixture of glue and soap in her handbag, to "_see what it was._" Sherlock had raised an eyebrow at the news, saying that anyway, this handbag was hideous, and adding that it was unfortunate that Misha hadn't added a corrosive element to the mix. The little boy went into primary school next year, and John began to worry for his future classmates.

True to her promise and her terrifying punctuality, Irene came into Lestrade office thirty minutes later, brought by an agent who was obviously delighted. She greeted the round, dazzling mastery and sensuality in a black sheath dress. Commissary's jaws hushed when he saw her.

"Commissary, let me introduce you to Irene Adler," Sherlock introduced. "She also recently offered her services to MI6."

He didn't mention the kind of service, but with this endorsement, the commissary made no further comment. MI6 was worth all the CV of the world. Even Donovan had to hide her previously sceptical air, and Lestrade did what he could not to sigh before the half-lie of the consulting detective.

Irene walked into the room and unceremoniously took place in an armchair. Her elegance and superiority filled the whole room.

"Well," she said. "Mr. Holmes, I'll be required to ask you to be concise. I put my client locked up, but I wouldn't have to make him wait too long, the poor fellow suffers from claustrophobia. I promised him the cane if he was wise, but I would rather avoid incidents."

She said this as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and Sherlock couldn't repress a smile. He promised them a grip woman, they had one under their eyes.

She crossed her legs, feeling the eyes of the commissary on her.

"Can you now tell me what do you want from me?" She asked.

Lestrade, who had hitherto remained silent, looked at his superior, seeking his verdict.

"Well, Lestrade," the commissary grew impatient, "tell her what her mission does involve!"

He looked at Sherlock with defeated shoulders. Sherlock looked at him with all the peace of the world. Irene looked at him calmly, waiting for details. The commissary looked at Irene. Commissioner Donovan looked at the commissary with disapproval. And John, arms crossed, looked at everyone, renouncing to show any reaction. Another case with the Yard…

Lestrade then decided to make a resume of the file.

"Survey for murder," he began then. "Our suspect is a trader of the City. Unfortunately, if we have strong presumption against him, we have nothing to charge him. The mission, basically, is to infiltrate his inner circle and open wide your eyes and ears."

"I see… Pillow talk?"

"We don't ask you to go so far."

"Oh, but it's an assumption that you have fully considered, Inspector Lestrade," Irene whispered.

She stood up.

"Well, I must hurry; I've got someone waiting for me."

She walked to the door, and Sherlock got up to follow her.

"Wait!" Lestrade stopped them. "At least take the time to know who you'll meet."

"It won't be necessary," Irene said, imperial, as she opened the office door. "I'll get myself my own opinion. Give the address to Mr. Holmes, who'll communicate it to me."

Then she left the office, nonchalant, Sherlock at her side. John looked away, hesitated, then grabbed his coat and left the office in turn.

He joined them, and they went away.

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**Author's notes:**

It's a strange feeling when a work ends. Especially when it's the first one. It's like a journey that ends after exploring an unknown country. We come back, head full of memories and emotions.

Thank you all. I enjoyed every week, every update, every comment, every subscription, every favorite. Thank you very much for your support, which has been very valuable.

I hope to see you at the next fanfiction. :)

Popaliloup

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